The Hour has come—the End is near, —
and yet my Pride won’t yield to Hear.
No God to plead, no soul to Save,
just earth and Silence in my grave.
The whispers come, both faint and strong,
“Could all you thought have been so wrong?”
But I dismiss what Heart might say
and cling to Reason’s slow decay.
The Cross I mocked now fills my view;
its shadow hints at Truths I knew.
Yet stubborn, I will not concede,
though doubt begins to plant its seed.
“If God were real, why should He care
for one who’s lived without a prayer?”
So I Reject what Mercy brings
and Mock the thought of Eternal things.
The world I loved now fades to Dust,
its fleeting glories all unjust.
No meaning lingers—no Hope remains, —
just Endless Dark and Fiery chains.
How foolish now, this Pride of mine,
to trade the Light for Hell’s confine.
Yet still I grasp at empty air,
unwilling to believe God is there.
The Final Breath—the Fleeting Spark, —
gives way to Silence, coldly stark.
Too late to Turn, for I was Blind;
the Truth I Mocked, God’s Grace declined.
The Lutheran Column 