O' Jesus, I cry'¦
We mortal men of flesh and bone
Are also buried in tombs of stone.
You died to be born again,
And say that death is not the end?
But for whom, I doth pray?
Now I die some every day.

Death is a curse on us left behind.
We suffer, we grieve, we drown in the wine.
Where is it written it is fair,
That we are left with this cross to bear?
This pain of death'¦ does it never cease?
Will our beating hearts know your peace?

Since the pleasures we gain in life
Are but fleeting reprieves from pain and strife,
The lure of death is peace '¦
And freedom from pain,
The promise of joy on the fruited plain.
Why? Why Lord, why? Why should we survive?
It seems so pointless to stay alive.

All our life we work, struggle, and strain,
And protect our loved ones from the furious rain.
We find satisfaction in our sacrifice
To ensure their earthly paradise.
Is that blasphemy, Lord? Is it a sin?
Is the pain of death a discipline?

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