Metadeath

The scriptures say
Death once had a sting
Before Christ banished that pain
To mortal memory.
Exiled as it is
To short-term attacks,
Death looks with envy on what it lacks,
Ever taking away from the brave and bold,

But never gaining, only growing old

Until some day, as the poet once dared cry,

We all will shout, "Death, thou shalt die!"

On that first morning lonely Death,

In the graveyard of forgotten ills,

Will look upon his withered self,

His hands he'll madly wring,

Asking, "Oh where is my old victory?

What happened to my sting?"

And there, with nothing but a memory

Of the ones he killed

Rising from the once-mighty shroud

To the glorious, eternal, and undying now,

Death will die.