Satan may play the fiddle,
But this verse is not a riddle,
Through life we spar with Satan's hand,
Yet we all end up returned to sand,
Our Maker's wrath we shall endure,
No shriek, nor moan, nor prayer,
Can save thee from thy own will,
That raises thee upon a hill,
Formed from thy toils, thy tribulations too,
Will the scales of Judgement to you be shrew?
To be prudent is to die daily,
Though you may go through life gayly,
Satan's temptations we may forgo and scorn,
Yet thou cannot escape Thee from the day we be born,
Oh Death, you unspeakable thing,
That terrifying other face of our great King,
None knoweth when thou cometh or cometh not,
By your hand,
All things are wrought.