The Two Paths
Someday this vanity will cease,
these futile struggles will bend and like wind, it will pass,
then the shrouds, the mattock and the grave,
will be the visible sights of all conceit
the ardour of covetousness,
the fever of avarice and the longing for accumulating is but a journey,
and like a fool all that we can ever inherit for our body in the end
is one six feet of earth, and a mouthful of clay.
Oh, Fool! this life is but a dream a shadow and a mirage,
But there is but one gain before the grave
The Way through the door into His bliss, few finds it,
Or the path into dreary gloom,
Sadly, there are many there,
You cannot sit on the Fence
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