🖤 Death Is Vain And Proud And Sometimes Patient 🖤 Poem by James McLain

'O Death', thou art so vain, so proud, so cold,
Thou takest pride in what thy hands hath wrought,
Yet what thou reapest is but dust and mold,
For all thy power, thou canst not hold a thought.

Thou smil'st when kings do bow to thy dark reign,
But what is wealth when all is laid to waste?
Thy blade is sharp, yet hath no lasting gain,
For Time will turn thy fleeting grasp to haste.

Sometimes thou wait'st with patience, biding time,
In shadows deep, thou lurk'st with silent breath,
Yet patience, too, is but thy fleeting crime,
For love and faith shall triumph over death.

'O Death', thy pride shall fall, thy power fade,
For in the end, thou art but Heaven's shade.
Thou art the gate, but not the keeper's key,
A servant still to immortality.

So boast no more, for thou art not divine,
Thy reign shall end, as doth the fading of these lines.