On My Death Bed

Spring time, Evening shadows, Where the working nights, Slumber before waking dew, Not the dew I shot, From the bartender hot, But the waking broth, Of the milked cow, Upon my lips now to I rot, Somber drips, Not receiving what I once sowed, For a drought of crops, With no fruit sold, But reaping what was, Not mine to forever hold, But of that of the grim reaper, For flesh is but a shadow, Of things to come steeper, So I pray like a nun, And seek the joy, That has yet to come un-done, To the everlasting I sow, Don’t doubt Jesus the Son, Ponder what the grim reaper can’t take, Living light in the Son, Live life for God’s sake, For God is awake with every dawn, And sees every lawn, On my death bed I sow and am gone.