Harsh winds do blow the golden flames of life,
Flickering gently through the stormy night.
Deep crimson drops of blood drip from the knife,
And yet it still exists, that golden light.

Though death will fall upon those who deserve,
And brightness of the day will turn to night,
The wind will cause the candle’s flame to curve,
And dimmer will it be, that golden light.

But as the dark circle of life goes ‘round,
As names of those who lived have been crossed out.
And as you run you know that you’ll be found,
For death is after you without a doubt.

But soon the gates of heaven will open,
And then the darling gift of life broken.