At the Hour of Death

I’ve been thinking a lot about this prose from Calvin Miller.  Poetry is best when the mind and heart have time to consider it again and again.

I once scorned every fearful thought of death,

When it was but the end of pulse and breath.

But now my eyes have seen that past the pain

There is a world that’s waiting to be claimed.

Earthmaker, Holy, let me now depart,

For living’s such a temporary art.

 And dying is but getting dressed for God,

Our graves are merely doorways cut in sod.


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