Two Hundred Thousand Winters

I sat upon the win­dow ledge and wept,
Two hun­dred thou­sand win­ters come and gone,
At mankind in her fol­ly, grief, and debt,
Anoth­er even­fall, anoth­er dawn.
Each shudd’ring birth pang of anoth­er day,
Each rat­tling throe that brings it to its end,
And we in toil, sor­row, joy, and play,
Grow­ing frail­er, fail­ing to forefend
That final hour, the advent of our last
Bela­bored and abom­inable breath,
No strength remain­ing in us to hold fast,
And all the ambit of our lives our death.

I rest’d my hand against the rimy pane,
Its glaze a beg­gared safe­guard ’gainst the chill,
Which seeps into the hearts of sons of Cain,
And slow accrues too bur­den­some a bill,
Which none alive can e’er afford to pay,
Its ice encrusts, our fur­naces go dim,
And all our fuels our fires drink away.
And when, I hope at last to think of Him.
Child of the heav­ens born a slave
To all that cir­cum­scribes this flesh­made frame,
Now weak like us He march­es ’gainst the grave,
And pow­er­less pre­vails against our shame.