Sonnet 102

For what is yet more powerful than death
Which steals the life from every living soul?
All creatures born of dust must feel his breath
As sure as spring’s lush blooms meet winter’s snow.
What god of love concedes to this dark reign
That every living thing be born to die;
That all the precious brood the earth shall bring
Traverse its’ vale of tears with death but nigh?
What hope forged cross of promise must life bear,
Not knowing heav’n or hell be destiny;
And which corporeal joys must we forbear,
To flout foul death and live eternally?
What mighty theorems thrive on proofs so thin
That men brave death to know what heav’n they’re in?

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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