O Death,

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

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