Unbowed, unbroken, proud,
Wrapped in skin’s shroud,
Never yielding, fighting on,
No pleas for mercy,
No need for grace,
We alone create our space.
Henley’s captains of our souls.
We decide what we behold.
We accept not any fate,
But persevere at every gate.
Turning back will never be.
We forge our own eternity.
Forgotten is our own sparse birth.
Our existence preceded worth.
Born helpless, no abilities,
We cried for all necessities.
The fact that we exist is there to show
That others cared for our frail souls.
And if not they, we would not be,
Dependent creatures each are we.
Yet, now that we are old,
We want not that we be told,
Or submit to any god or thing,
But to the end we’ll be our king.
And with our chins held high
We prepare to die.
How foolish! How utterly foolish creatures we.
A little strength and gods we think
We have become; though once we blink
Our years fade by and our sun sinks.
Then who will care for our estate?
Who’ll be there to guide our fate?
What strength have we on that day
When death claims this clump of clay?
Perhaps, yes, perhaps all along
We were dependent on God’s Son.
Perhaps not we, but He
Provided our necessities.
Perhaps each breath told of His grace
Sustaining life and creating face.
Perhaps our very thoughts of independence
Were scripted on what He’d given us.
Could it be that humility and trust
Are not such bad virtues for each of us?
Is service such a despised thing
That we shrink from even considering?
Is submission and dependence a worse state
Than arrogance and hubris and tempting fate?
Crossing the bar requires a guide.
Crossing life’s waves works best with Him at our side.