The Clock of Life
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
That no man can restore.
Thirty-nine people died while you read this short poem. Every hour 5,417 go to meet their Maker. What are YOU doing to help reach them with the Gospel e’re they are cast into Hell'
From a book in my library comes the following incident: “A marshal in Napoleon’s army—a man who was devotedly and enthusiastically attached to him—was mortally wounded in battle. As the last struggle drew near and he lay dying in his tent, he sent for his chief. Napoleon came. The poor man thought his emperor could do anything. Perhaps he even sought to put him in the place of God. So he earnestly pleaded with his leader to save his life. The emperor sadly shook his head and turned away. But as the dying man felt the cold, merciless hand of death drawing him irresistibly behind the curtain of the unseen world, he was still heard to shriek out, ‘Save me, Napoleon! Save me!’” In the hour of death, that soldier discovered than even the powerful Napoleon could not give him physical life.