On Death

Mankind, near their final days, beg that time can halt its morbid procession,
For they know not what lays ahead of them.
Mankind, fearful of the natural course of life, wish that this lot can be brought to a cessation,
For they grasp not the unknown.
But, humbly do I ask, mankind, why fear death and its reassuring steps?

Fear not, men near their end! For —
Death is but the calm garden of repose for those who grew weary of this wretched world.
Death is but the final destination after an ebbing earthly stay, the next station after a vanishing
mortal sojourn.
Death is but the settlement of men’s lifelong toil, the resolution of men’s relentless strife.
Death is but the calling from Him who shall endow them with a new, everlasting life.

He who is novel to this turbulent world can only yearn for the fruits of victory and times of
He therefore weeps at the end of his yet unfinished story.
He who is inured to the vicissitudes of life, however, can find beauty even in the darkest days
and lowest heights.
He therefore does not quiver at the call of his demise.
He is born with youthful hope, he returns with ancient grace.

I, near his soothing approach, willingly gave him my embrace.
Take me, pray, away from this realm, which I’ve enjoyed with all my earthly tastes.
Bring me to the unknown, to the uncertain, to the destined.
There shall I find an endless leisure, an eternal respite, a timeless rest.
What shall I fear?

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