Death

On a pale white horse he rides,
Feeding on the sins of men;
He dwells among those desires,
That belong to an evildoer's plan.


He does not belong to fantasy,
That roots from a myth-teller's story;
His existence is for real,
In all his deep, dark glory.


To those who fail to remember,
That we are formed from dust;
Prisoners of passion,
Captured by our own lust.


As flowers of the field,
That soon wither and die;
It is the law of life,
That we must all live by.


Though death lies at the root,
Of a man's greatest fears,
The comfort of God remains;
His grace can still wipe away tears.


Don't be afraid,
For you are not alone;
Your Saviour has come,
Your sins He has borne.


For you see,
The sound of galloping of the pale white horse,
Has now stopped to acknowledge,
The work on the cross.