Every Day

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Every day now I come to wonder, by and by, I wonder when, oh when, will my days be done?
What day shall God choose for me to die?
It is on these days I sit and stare with a plaintive sigh.
The only question I can ask is why- must man's days be numbered?
So short until against our will we enter an eternal slumber.
We feel the chill so sharp and shrill and then in death we are encumbered.
The light of the skies fades from our eyes, slowly we become number.
When the day is done we know we can't run- or escape our eternal slumber.





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