I walk the sunrise quiet pines,
mid whispering winds that near beside
brave silently the trembling sound:
Oh death where is your sting?
The grass grows hearty—little lives
nurtured in the womb of earth
so shortly short, now green, now brown
Oh death, is this your sting?
Droplets mist the eyes of day
as grey-cloud silence looms in shade
and here midst thunderclaps of rain
Oh death this is your sting!
Down the cliffs, where water pounds
in turbulent and frothing mouths
now swirling out in calm toward sea.
Oh death, how short your sting
for sun rays golden in the west
the land where golden light attests
that all is good on Jesus’ breast.
Oh death, where is your sting?
Photo by Lucas Costa: https://www.pexels.com