Professors and priests and all-knowing men, Are artists of scenes of our lives after death. Both pleasures and torments flow from their pens Though I doubt they know anything of final rest. Precious little it matters what we are after dust Compared to the lives that we live upon earth; Compared to the soft touch, the sweet music, the slow rust Of beautiful hearts visited by care's dearth. Whether our souls will be burned or caressed Carries little import when so few days remain; For there is nothing more worthy than to comfort distress, No better prayer than to lessen death's pain. 'Tis wisdom to love and folly to preach For grace is learned practiced, there's nothing to teach.
~ CRH 2010
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