Death Does Not Have The Final Say

Death does not have the final say.
His last breath breathed, bare and exposed,
On the wind to lands beyond the setting sun:
When the scavengers discard his bones
And the sun bleaches them white,
He will sail past the stars and universe;
Once driven crazy, peace will lay over him,
Once buried in life’s dark torment, he will soar
Once love-scorned, he now lays in love’s arms
Because death does not have the final say.

Death does not have the final say.
Above, the grasses grow.  Below, the worms burrow
But the dead know nothing
His journey here---torturous and tragic,
A scourge dealt to him severely as he cried forgiveness;
Not for himself, but for the hands that dealt it;
Forty lashes save one as strength poured from him
Earth rumbled as creation beheld the
Chains snapped as twine;
For death does not have the final say.

Death does not have the final say.
In trouble, trial or thorny path
Though waves break loudly on rocky shore,
Or flowers wilt in beating sun,
Or daisies pass before they’re done
One shoot rises from desert floor
Amidst the dry and thirsty earth, it says,
“While I am here, I will occupy this ground and
Give the grit of my being ‘til the very last breath.
And even the second after it is drawn, a conqueror.”
Death does not have the final say.