Foxes have holes and birds have nests; to what end is man’s endless travails and sorrows and when does he get the best of the bests. Many men live to die but a few were destined to die and live again and again. Whose name would mount up wings like eagles and whose works would soar against the stormy winds of segregation and relegation? Whose deeds would be left on the sands of time? And whose philosophies would be taught to generations yet unborn?
Though not as prophets and clairvoyants, we are able to tell accurately and with huge precision the times and seasons. And while yet we are lacking in wholeness we show love to those who have added meaning, virtue and true essence to our once miserable lives. Who really knows and who can tell succinctly that day and hour when the icy hands of inevitability and the cold gestures of life’s unpredictable epilogue would beckon unto us.
For when it is fully come like the expected snow in winter and the known sun in summer, would our works be complete? Would we be fully ready and prepared for the great journey beyond; prepped to take that long walk that accommodates no goodbyes and adieus; ready to thread that lonely long road whose end is determined by the choices and actions of today?
William Shakespeare wrote and I quote, ‘Death is a necessary end.’ The writer to the Hebrews in the New Testament who must have been an ardent follower of the very avatar of God, added, ‘It has been appointed unto man to die once and after that judgement.’ A wandering Sicilian also drew an inference from life's experiences and concluded in this emphatic way, ‘Every man is mortal and every life must come to an end.’ I’d only say in old King James' English, ‘The Night Cometh…’
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