Oh Death! Thou vaunted fool, proud son of sin’s defiling,
Oft thought of as potent, supreme, and unyielding
How hast thou fallen, been debased and made servile
Those who feared thy touch, who you thought to defile
Will not be brought low, nor in dark oblivion sleep.
For thy touch, no longer bitter, is so very sweet,
And though the greatest men slip the bounds of earth
To rest because of thee, yet you are bound by birth
And the life of one man, whom you could not contain.
And you do even choose the time and station in vain,
Being subject to the beck and call of every beggarly
Thief, proud king, and common chance. In the company
Of disease and contagion, you pass your time, for you
Have no better association. Thy touch is soft in lieu
Of pain, as once it was, now dulled and sweetened till
The passage of this life, with opiate and dream will
Slip peacefully into eternal bliss. O Death, where now
Is thy vaunted pride. Gone, and no longer can’st thou
Escape thine own touch. O Death, even thou wilt die,
Eternal death for you awaits, when we see Him in the sky 

This poem was written in response Trash Talking Death, a post written by Joy.