The hill of dying, not of death,
And all the climbers gashed.
On hands and knees, I take a breath,
Barely moving, slashed.
And though the door of death is shut,
Beckons with a skull.
“But if my death is why you cut,
Why is your scythe so dull?”
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Please include the following statement on any distributed copy: By John Piper. ©2015 Desiring God Foundation. Website: desiringGod.org