Why do poets off themselves
Five times more than others do?
Besides the fact that no one reads
Their work, though every soul approves?
To their own self they seek to be true.
On praise alone no poet feeds.

With finer gauge his brain is wired
(Though his is not a greater heart),
With words he seeks to order the world;
In lines and meter is he inspired
To repair what sin has torn apart,
To smooth the Fall that left him gnarled.

What hopeless task! His words lack force
For such a work — No man can win! —
This power can God alone provide.
What poet will seek in God his source?
With spoken light will he begin?
No wonder he choses suicide!

The longer on earth a saint remains,
The stronger grows desire for heaven;
The body feels its aging pains,
And more to God’s own side he’s driven.

The heavier load of life directs
The sight of faith to things above;
To Jesus’ cross my trial connects,
To service the Holy Spirit drove.

Oh, Lord Messiah, come for me!
Break open the clouds with angels’ shout!
The humble soul would soon see
The end of Satan’s and saints’ dispute!


Describe how your difficulties have increased your desire for eternal things.

Who prays for me? A few I know,
But many must hasten to heaven’s gate
Whose names I’d never guess—they go
To God on my behalf—up straight
Their intercessions rise.

I know because the angelic horde
Protects, defends, and circles ’round
Against the earthly, airy lord—
His fiery arrows fall to the ground—
Gabriel’s army flies.

The Master spared me many a hurt,
His mercy a sure reply to prayer—
Else I’d lay prone, face-down, in the dirt,
If not for a righteous multitude’s care—
Faithful, hidden allies.

Search not God’s skies for special, personal signs
To know his will, as ancient man appealed
For knowledge in entrails and crooked lines.
The center: what God desires has been revealed —
He finds that way who goes to Scripture to read.
In the Bible’s words his perfect will is sealed;
There every soul shall find the pleasing deed.