The thorn-crown worn by youth is wizened age,
Which righteous life or fickle chance bestow.
Though golden youth in time becomes the sage,
‘Cross Styx or pearly gate he still must go.
Yet what’s the gift when time hath stayed death’s hand—
A stooped-back frame, a cane, a toothless grin?
Too oft men deem that such a state is grand,
Till time’s harsh test leaves all their hopes chagrined.
When years transform bright eyes to dullest pearl,
And frailty creeps deep in every bone—
Is this the prize life’s promises unfurl,
When each must meet his destiny alone?
Perhaps ’tis but time’s wish to humble man,
And have him crawl, not march to meet his end.

©Loubert S Suddaby.  All Rights Reserved.