Be Not Proud
R
Randy McClave
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Oh death; be not proud,
Oh grave, be not shallow,
For out reaching your darkened hand;
And refusing a boy to become a man.
Oh grave; I feel your sting,
And death, I hear you sing,
From the lives that you take;
From the lives that we gave.
Oh grave, be not proud,
For taking the littlest child,
For refusing them to grow;
Unto the adults, they will never know.
Death, I have seen you once before,
And I didn't know what to do,
I heard your knock upon the door;
So like a coward, I hid from you.
Death, be not proud,
For arriving like a thief,
To break the heart, and shatter the soul;
To fill the soul with your grief.
Death be not proud,
Grave be not victorious,
Pain be not loud;
Sorrow, be not continuous.
Randy L. McClave
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