The Score

Because I've come to eighty odd,
I must prepare to meet you, God.
What should I do? I cannot pray,
I have no pious words to say;
And though the Bible I might read,
Scriptures don't meet my need.

Please tell me God what can I do
To be acceptable to you?
I've put in order my affairs,
And left their portion to my heirs;
And what remains I've willed to be
A gift to Charity.

What must I do? I cannot kneel,
Although a sense of you I feel,
I will not show a coward's fear,
Waiting until the end be near
To pester you with mercy plea,
--You'd be despising me.

I hope I have been kind and true;
I've helped to happiness a few.
I've made a mother's eye to smile,
I've played with little ones a while.
I do not know what is the score;
Of good I might have done much more:
But now I guess my exit's due;--
Dear God, it's up to You!