Death stood, forlorn, by the lines of children. His scythe notched, his skeletal arm limp. His bony fingers scratched aimlessly at the course cloth Of his black habit. He should have been staunch, with bleached jaw set. His face should be covered but his eye roved freely. His hood flapped loosely in the wind and flies buzzed As his skull slowly turned towards the light. Placed high before the columns was a mighty gold throne Bedecked in rich jewels, rubies, emeralds, diamonds. But a light far greater stood out upon a fair head. And it shone on all around far and wide. He was accomanied by a thousand glorious angels, Each singing a song of exhaultation, And their voices proclaimed a good, A good lost to this mortal realm two thousand years ago. Each child who passed before him smiled and moved on, Floating up supported by cherubs and seraphims. Through bright white clouds in a azure blue sky Each infant bought forth a note of pure wonder, adding to The exhuberant song of triumph. Death had no place to judge on this Earth And slunk away to bowels of hell to meet an old friend.