Death leaves its sting as it comes to vanquish. Mourning is our response. We fight it off, try to make deals with it, pretend we can beat it, mask its traces on our aging faces. To no avail. Its march is unstoppable, its approach no barricade can prevent.
Death is our universal appointment.
To die once consoles no one, for the other side brings on an accounting that every conscientious soul dreads. I will always hate death. For, by definition, death is separation. I always flinch upon its appearance. That one crude instrument of death, however, was driven deep into the earth to pierce the fatal, deliberate hand of sin.