I recall as a child seeing my first dead person. How does a young person making that observation understand that we were all born to die?
The poet puts it like this:
The clock of life is wound but once,
And no man has the power
To tell just when the hands will stop.
At late or early hour.
To lose one’s wealth is sad indeed.
To lose one’s health is more.
To lose one’s soul is such a loss
That no man can restore.
Thirty-nine people died while you read this short poem. Every hour 5,417 go to meet their Maker.
whereas you do not know what will happen tomorrow. For what is your life? It is even a vapor that appears for a little time and then vanishes away.
Because of the reality of the fact of the end of life, we must give this subject some serious thought.
Gary