A Memory Trace

Shelved in cold

Shrouded with dread,

Low and behold,

I am truly dead

Below the ground

Tither’s no rest

Unclothed and bound

Without contest

An eerie place

Ancestral flow

This memory trace

I can’t forgo

Touching sin

Woe is me

To my chagrin,

I hold no plea

A trumpet sounds

It is done

True mercy abounds

God’s blessed Son