Thou art as a petal
That withers in the wind;
Thou art likened unto a leaf
That fades in due time.

Thou mayest be held in great esteem,
Yet thou shalt be turned to food for worms.
Thy lands and riches will not aid thee—
Then why dost thou see all to gain?

The earth is not thy wealth, health, nor salvation.
The Son of the Most High,
The Prince of Peace, is thy only hope;
The wise man holds to his God.

Turned someday to food, the rose to flourish,
Twined with the earth
That thou once didst hold in high esteem—
The two become one.

Thou wilt meet and answer to thy Judge.
Think on this, reader, of the discourse:
Thy mortal body, heed the call—
Thy God beckons thee to receive.