Has the hour passed by unyielding,
when you could have closed with Christ?
Your day of grace is past evening;
you have gone out, and it is night.

How shall the sweet be turned to bitter!
How the promise of consolation, curdle!
How shall the gospel blossom wither,
since you’re one talent’s burial!

In comes death, and hell follows after,
into your bedroom, starring grim.
Smitten with pain, conscience, asthma.
God utters doom, “Death, take him.”