Sad Soul, the marrow of my erring Earth,
Assailed by these bold passions afflicted,
Why dost thou ache so & endure dearth,
Desiring thy self & looking so conflicted?
Why such outlay, having such little time,
Must ye spend freely on a decayed thing?
Shall sands, ever flowing on, count on by
Yet count not thee out until a bells tolling
And then thou gain Eternal Life thru Death?
Well, Vanity could arrest such noble ardor
If truth be spoken here, this life is a test
Put forth by something greater, far larger.
So shalt thou consume Vanity's Oblivion,
And try to come to know God in the end?