Slow Dying

The hill of dying, not of death,
     Is steeper,
And all the climbers gashed.

On hands and knees, I take a breath,
     A creeper,
Barely moving, slashed.

And though the door of death is shut,
      The keeper
Beckons with a skull.

“But if my death is why you cut,
     Grim Reaper,
Why is your scythe so dull?”

©2014 Desiring God Foundation. Used by Permission.

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Please include the following statement on any distributed copy: By John Piper. ©2014 Desiring God Foundation. Website: desiringGod.org