It's not of how be the door,
But be of moments made by those sleepeth in depth,
One is said to have failed to sleep,
Christ, The Messiah.
Death now did mourn,
And mourning became first away from man,

To us, It comes so slender,
Sweeping breath out of bodies,
Souls lay hanging helpless of deed,
What's left of them is being Ghosts,
Be it to Earth remaining,
Or to Heaven ascending.

Words untold, Deeds shall speak,
The art of thine Legacy shall say for thee,
You are the littlest master of your past,
But be thee the significant creator of thy morrow.
Live before your light dies out,
Or yet die before your light burns you.