Spectral Horse Poems No. 3: An Excerpt

Satan's Yard

When the sky with might is cleft,
They will be doled, right and left,
Good sheep, who will enter in,
And goats, consigned to the din,
Where spent sinners spin and whirl,
While God builds a better world.

On that fateful day of gold,
When the trumpets sturm and scold,
And the dead in graves awake,
With shrouds all in glory baked,
What will your accounting be
Of those days when you were free?

Free to choose the bad or good,
To give or get as you would,
To soothe the sores of the sick,
Or rouse them with bruising kick,
To the cold in blankets clothe,
Or being warm, them oppose.

Do not fear if you have been
A friendly heart, ever keen
To help those who labour hard
At life, which is Satan’s Yard.
But if you beat those who cry,
On that day you’ll surely die.

Bow with awe before the Judge,
Who the mountains makes to budge,
From their places stars throw down,
And the seas themselves will drown,
But who gathers on the throne,
In his lap, his very own.