Tristan Robert Lange

Grass

What shall I cry?

All flesh is grass!

Number our days.

Grass withereth,

Flower fadeth;

Surely the people are grass.

All the goodliness

Thereof

As the flower

Of the field.

The voice said,

“Cry.”

But, what shall I cry?

All flesh is grass,

Things which are

Seen

Are temporal.

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