How futile are the
efforts
of mans’ short
feeble strife,
on this lost and
dying earth,
as he begins his
life.
I repaired a house
-
had first to clean
it up,
some paper here,
some clothing there,
and one stained
coffee cup -
I really have to
wonder,
what's inside the
head,
when I see the
pauper's life -
and view his life
instead.
How futile are the
work days,
how futile those
days off,
when hogs and sows
come running to -
a busy feeding
trough.
If I had only
known him,
if I had known him
hence,
though others
carried him from here,
I held his seven
cents.
Though not as much
as Jesus' cried
while hanging to
the cross,
my heart cries out
in anguish
for men who live
in loss.
Indulging in the
here and now,
responsible, his
fate -
man still works
and lives like pigs,
though God
controls the date.
Seven cents discarded,
I found inside his
home.
A life indulged in
things of earth -
More souls forever
roam....
It is very sad knowing- that men have every opportunity to come to Him but choose to linger in this world’s sin and temporary things. In the end a Christless soul drifts away, never having another hope. ~ a friend
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