First, cry than to feel cold and my blood grow thick like ash, I am dead.

But to wake in green pastures, with clear glass sky o’er head.

To finally throw away all aches and pains, to feel warm with no more fear or dread.

To look, at the white river bed and see angels beckoning and strain to hear what was said.

Now I look up and see a swift sunrise, and sigh so beautifully I cry.

And feel peace and am fed.
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