What do we see before it's over?

Bright lights flashing, drawing closer?

Does the world start to reduce in size,

to a tiny viewing hole before our eyes?

Do we open our eyes to endless black? 

Or find ourselves on trial, hearing lists of all we lack?

Do we rise from our bodies and look on all around?

Or walk the earth, invisible through death's shroud?

I've heard tell of angel choirs and streets of gold…

But ethereal beauty to me seems cold.

I'd rather dream of a summer garden in bloom,

Where the Sovereign Lord sits working on a loom…

Or in a shed, or fishing, it matters not.

For Paradise, it seems can be naught

but an extension of the one who made it so,

His nature manifested in His love for us below.

He would gather us to His bosom and tell us of His love,

Unravel for us the mysteries of the earth and heaven above.

There'd never be nights or storms or pain

Just us and Jesus and sweet summer rain. 

© cherinwogu