Vivere disce, cogita mori
What power in the fallen leaf
Or in the piney tomb
What faith makes up the stone’s belief?
Or echo shriveled womb
The empty sky with waning moon
Reflecting the sun’s burn
The echo in the now cold room
His presence and her yearn
This spider’s web of tattered silk
And wasted ear of corn
The aged breast that bears no milk
That wind that shakes the morn
A shrunken skull and grinning mask
With scythe and bony palm
The harvest thresh his final task
That death applied as balm
Where’s the escape from this bleak place
The path we all must trod
If I alone fill this small space
Who plays the part of God?
If man is made to suffer this
If all we are is here
Why bother thoughts for these we’ll miss
Why anything held dear?
There’s power in the fallen leaf
And power in the tomb
The stone believes the stone’s belief
The resurrective womb
Believe for sake of your belief!
The soul is made to live
and binding Gilead balm relief
Is Christ’s alone to give
So carry on though veil of tears!
walk fields of bittersweet
Past roaring vales and quiet fears
To loved ones you will meet!
This here is not all we will be
Nor all that we will feel!
There is another plane to life
One ultimate and real
Bear up the pack of stones so sued
Bind up your thorny side
These God himself did give to you
Chin up, march on with pride!
There is no death in fallen leaf
Nor climax in the tomb
God's faith is what the stone believes
That craftsman of the womb