When I am supposed to meet death
I pleaded to stay here
but not anymore dead living for
I have seen Your big hands
Maybe I'm not supposed to see
I was a book
as my blood rushed from the
I got from my enemy
and you flipped my life
starting from here
starting from the back
And I am supposed to meet death
But I pleaded to sty here
for my family
You granted my wish
so I will not be
because I'll be
Contrary to what the action movies show whenever a protagonist fights for his/ her life due to a gusnshot or serious injury by the evil forces- the antagonists, we are a book that is not flipped starting from the front cover- starting when we are a baby. God reviews our life from the moment we are ‘supposed to meet death' and then, backwards.
I learned this from my twinsister, whose classmate told her about the tragic story of her father. Her father was holdapped and he had a gunshot. And from the moment where ‘his blood rushed from the wound, ' (I pictured it this way) he saw nothing but a big hand flipping a big book with no sound. And the book contained his life. He was saved, and he lived, because he has pleaded for his life- for his newly-born son. It was a miracle story, after all.
This is a tribute poem to his miracle story, thanking God for everyday miracles in our lives— we are always saved from that kind of trouble- and celebrating life, because not everyone is given the chance to have a second life: to change, to get back our focus to what God has planned for us, and to correct our mistakes— to not anymore live ‘a dead living' kind of life.
We are not perfect, and that doesn't mean that change will happen in an instant, if we decided to follow His ways. Let Him change us. Live an upright life, for our life is but a book and how we write our story, determines our fate, and when the time comes when we are ‘supposed to meet death, ' we should trust God that our name is written in the Book of life.
Comments about this poem (Dead Living by Mary Jesusa Villegas )
Top 500 Poems
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
William Ernest Henley