Death, why in vain do I seek you?
Where is your sting
That I may know who I am,
And be freed from this wretched
Thing which haunts me.

Neither tramp nor pauper
I bed in the streets,
Beggar I'm not
Yet your blade I seek
This cursed body, which holds me in tow
Stinkin' derelict if you want to know
Drunken bastard I've heard it said,
Yet who am I?

Many a bottle I've taken to bed
Dreaming of a long time golden head,
Shedding my tears in the spilling drink
Draining of spirit lest I think
Who am I?
Why taunt me death?

Look at these hands a tremble now,
Search my eyes if you know how,
Bloodied whites with pupils ablaze
Skin that's broken in a jigsaw craze.
Shrunken corpse that won't be stilled
Blood not warm, forever chilled,
Who am I?

What is the voice I hear in my head?
A man called Jesus, but he is dead
And yet He touches what others dread
Shedding love upon my bed.

He scorns the stink
With a loving glance
Pierces my heart with His blood covered lance
And answers the question I ask of death
"You are mine."

© Helen Catherine Cramer 1989

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