The clock
does her work without being paid,
And,
the sun comes up without accolade,
The
gentle breeze blows without a parade:
They
each do the things for which they were made.
But
men are not so, they seek great acclaim,
Put
not forth their hand unless it brings fame,
Each
seeks for himself a praiseworthy name:
In being
like this they bring themselves shame.
The
world held its own before we were born,
And
though many hats in this life we've worn,
Our
friends shall our graves with flowers adorn,
And
on angel's wings aloft we'll be borne.
Then
too late we will learn that life goes on,
For
men will still live when our time is done,
Then
we will see that our last chance has gone:
We've
then met our end with no Life-Crown won.
So keep
your vain flattery, keep your praise,
Each
man comes to die, each body decays,
My honor
postponed by endless delays:
Will
be forgotten when my flesh is raised!
I'll
do my work, that for which I was made,
Let
others enjoy their fancy parade,
Defer
to the one who loves accolade:
But
when I face death I'll not be afraid.
I've
had a good life, no need to complain,
I've
had many good times to ease my pain,
I've
had all I could ever hope to gain:
My loves
were not petty, my joys not vain.
I was
not made only pleasure to know,
I've
walked the Straight Path in this world below,
I'll
live 'til it's time for my soul to go:
And
then my reward my Lord shall bestow.
H.
L. Gradowith
(Date
of composition unknown)
NOTE: This is another poem I had forgotten, and it was prepared for inclusion in my commentary on Psalm 40. The date of composition is lost (at least for the time being).