In sickness unto death one does not mend.
Embalmed, entombed, insensate, there I lay,
No breath to smell earth, spice, my own decay—
Nor sight in formless darkness without end.
I heard your voice and hastened to obey
Even before I sensed the miracle.
I stood there—witness, sign, and spectacle—
In Christ’s own light and light of sunlit day.
That we behold God’s glory and believe:
I live, embrace my loved ones, see the sky,
And marvel at the gifts that I receive.
But Lord, I pray you next time when I die,
Wherever I’m interred by those who grieve,
There—till you come to judge me—let me lie.