that he might live

“Let us die as soon as possible, and by whatever process God shall
appoint. And when we are dead to the world, and nature, and self,
we shall begin to live to God.”—Adoniram Judson

a man must live each day, that he might die
and not go down into eternity
obliterated, like a whimpering sigh,
ignoble in its wasteful brevity.

the plots he scribbles daily on his page
(of fantasies, odes, ballads, tragedies)
will judge his ink with gladness or with rage,
sifting cacophonies from euphonies.

the hands that feed; the will that peace pursues;
the heart that bleeds for those who writhe in pain;
where roads divide, the options he shall choose
are fixed:  may he not pass this way in vain!

kind words, soft-spoken in the nick of time?
incontinence, of envy and of spite?
snubbed peasants, robbed of reason and of rhyme?
the ways of man his own life stories write.

a man must die each day, that he might live
beyond the sleep of death’s mortality;
the measure of the soul that dares to give
shall increment with ceaseless constancy.

© Copyright 2024 July 09
by Clyve A. Bowen♫