Death
The gentle rain brings gladness to the endless summer heat.
My heart rejoices in the water falling from the sky,
and so I hope like rain will be the angel when I die,
and death itself like showers pouring down with coolness sweet.
Just like other men I fear my death too soon to meet,
and sometimes I have shivered at a sense it drew too nigh;
but sometimes, hot and thick, the air is sick with worldly lie.
Perhaps a light refreshment we would in our dying greet.
But this I have discovered from our Lord upon the Cross:
that death of soul is better feared than merely earthly death,
that all our fear has sprung from when the robe of light was torn.
I think few men can meet their fate and disregard the loss
who have not given up the ghost in trade for God's own Breath,
and died in fleshly Adam that in Christ they may be born.
