From soft soil I see, my marble eye gazing upon thee.
Scurrying here and there, hurriedly passing by, not musing on the spoils that beneath me lie.
A monolith reaching, stretching in the night, a gargoyle guardian until morning light.
By morning and through day, a crawly record that mere mortals pass this way.
A constant stance, my announcing dance, till my shadow grows, night, then light, so the cycle goes.
From soft soil I ponder, with granite thoughts wonder.
What my spoils would say, if they had another day: what would they be, if I set them free
Yet by my might, hold their cold lips tight, corruption has lock and key, living flesh they will never be.
I’m bound by my master’s command that none must slip from my hand.
So by bulking hardness, captive souls harness, in sod and worms drown, the departed souls bound.
From soft soil I speak, ancient foundations move and squeak.
Once an ally in the fiendish foes fight, hence displaced and dethroned by Heaven’s might.
Rolled aside by the divine inside: worm, stench, decay, all given way to behold the light of this glorious day.
Granite’s new epitaph cries, man shall arise; now marble’s declaration: the body awaits salvation!
Gilead has poured her oil, death halted in his toil, atop soft soil an angel sits upon his spoil.
Sowers Pouch 