Life has no salt in it. See how I halt in it!—
I, who once rode with the first of the flight—
Watching and waiting now, feebly debating now
Whether the close will bring darkness or light;
Half my time pondering, back through life wandering,
Groaning to see how that life has been marred—
Seeing the blots in it, all the bad spots in it,
Mustering, bringing past sins to the yard.
Shall I be able to show a clean waybill to
God, when he rounds up and drafts off his own—
When, at the mustering, millions of clustering
Souls come to judgement before the white throne?
Is the Lord’s hand on me? Have I his brand on me?
When I go up will the passage be barred?
Am I a chosen one? must the gates close on one?
Shall I be left ’twixt the wings of his yard?
