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The winds of change are blowing raw
And the Saint lays dying.
Fear and uncertainty twists our bowels
And the Saint lays dying.
"Have no anxiety about tomorrow," coached our Master.
But the wind is raw,
Bad change is coming,
And the Saint lays dying.
Shall we celebrate the life of the Saint--
He who has run the race and kept the faith?
How can we celebrate while his widow grieves,
And we ourselves grieve?
And what of the Saint
Now that all of his humanity is nearly stripped away?
There is no dignity in death
The way we do it now.
Where is the assurance?
Where is the courage?
Where is the faith
When a machine beats his heart?
We huddle together and pray
For the Deus ex machina.
"Lord, deliver us from our dilemma,
From having to face the pain."
Our gentle Master reminds us
That we all die a little every day:
The plant closes,
Our child moves away.
The earthquake and the flood and the fire
Sweep away the things we love.
Things can never again
Be made to be the way they were.
"At least we have our family!"
And that is gone.
"At least we have our health!"
And that to is gone too.
How can we celebrate
Our own little deaths?
How can we celebrate
The race with end not in sight?
Our gentle Master reminds us
That unless a grain of wheat die
It cannot bring forth fruit.
"ABSTRACTION!" we sob.
So the mighty God of the Universe
Makes a penciled notation in the "Book of Life".
The Saint rises from his bed
And Walks.
A little more time we are granted
To grow and to prepare.
But not too long--
Not too long.
Abba says: "Call any time day or night.
I'll make coffee and we can talk.
We really need to talk.
Don't put if off."