Because man is not constructed of stone
He bleeds and cries, sorry and shamed.
The myths of strength, stoic power, and pride
Are all obliterated in soft defeat
By the crushing hand of unforgiving
Death; who brings his mortal perdition swift.
Living, as mortal as old Socrates,
I am prone to finite crumble and rot,
Though I may wish my organs platinum,
I am but a mailable piece of
God's gold, set to perish, disease, and die.
(My light dims so that Your Glory may shine.
I gladly give my forever away,
So that in Your good favor I may stay!)
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