Earth's moan rises on steady groan
No life is meant but left for rent
Death is own, when life has grown
Our fate is bent when angels're sent.
Life's sweet scent is in him absent
For his press is entwined as tress
A breath is lent, not to be dente'
He that hopes less, lives life's full guess.
Hell is mess as table of chess
No life be vain or death retain
Doth Lord profess in His goodness
He not be bain, lest live in vein.
None is lore, married to such law
Grace will pore as blissful sea shore.
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