The Voice Poem by James L. A. Huetson

Dark nights filled with terror,
Your heart filled with fear,
The tortures of knowing
Your own death is near,
A plunge into the abyss
But awake at the dawn
To a still small voice saying carry on.

Is it all but a dream
With those great rocks below
In tumultuous waters
As downward I go?
Then just when it seems
That I soon will be gone
The same still small voice whispers carry on.

One must cross his bridges
No matter how frail.
Life's road must be traveled
Even be it a trail.
Beyond the next bend the trail may be gone,
But that still small voice bids me carry on.

I fear not the pain
of life brought to it's end.
My fear is for fences its too late to mend,
fields never plowed, opportunities gone,
yet the still small voice urges carry on.

At the end of life's road
Is there really a gate?
To a new life beyond
Where new work will await?
Or is it the end? With a cold grave to don
And the still small voice whispers carry on.