When I consider this fleeting house of clay,
And how we spend time and energies to make it clear.
I see an error and priority misplaced.
For whether it’s fine or not it’ll be someday replaced
By an eternal home far better than clay
Which is prone to worm, moth and decay.
Then I heard a voice whisper and say:
It’s only those who have more time to spare
That will toil and boil to feed the soil
And thereby sacrifice their eternal joy.
This tomb we live in is not our home
It’ll be someday put in a tomb
And all the beauties will be soiled
And all our toils will be foiled.