The Clock

 •  1 min. read  •  grade level: 3
The clock of life is wound but once,
And no man has the power
To tell just when the hands will stop,
At late or early hour.
To lose one’s wealth is sad indeed;
To lose one’s health is more;
To lose one’s soul is such a loss
As no one can restore.
Thirty-nine people died while you read this short poem. Every hour 5,417 go to meet their Maker. (We speak of “normal times”; there are no definite totals yet for the slaughter going on all around the world today.) You could have been one of those figures. Sooner or later you may be. Are you ready?