The Sun bestows a borrowed Glow—
Each Breath—a Gift we scarcely Know.
The Pulse beats soft, a fragile Thread—
To live demands we Honor Bread.
Do not wager what was Lent—
Life\'s Coin is spent, or heaven-sent.
Each Morn we wake, the Choirs hum—
A hymn unfolds where stillness comes.
The Earth revolves, a gracious Stage—
Our Part, a Line, not Time’s long Age.
Be grateful for this fleeting Flame—
For playing small would soil its Name.
Cling to the Thread, its Luster bold—
More precious than the brightest Gold.
And when the Curtain softly falls—
May echoes linger down the Halls.