At the approach of dawn on that day, the mist rises quietly from the forest’s floor.
An old stone cross from a crumbling headstone peeks through the parting veil of night.
The time draws near with the steady cadence of that pale horse of death.
To what merit will this man’s work be weighed, when wrong is measured with right.

The man walks to that old stone cross, seeking solace in that place of the dead.
But there is no solace for this man of works, only fear and dread.

He listens, more pensive, to the steady beat of the hoofs drawing near.
Out of the mist a black horse comes steadily in a cadence of doom.
The rider carries golden scales and the man cries “weigh me for I am worthy”.
The rider passes and whispers. “These scales will not measure man.
Your rider comes soon”.

The night parts and the gray of dawn unfold this man’s last day.
The deathly quiet of that morning mist, shudders in the cadence of that pale horse of doom
“Your rider comes soon”.

Behold a pale horse comes in the mist with death holding its reigns.
The old man trembles but proudly cries out “I am not yours; weigh my deeds!”
The rider proclaims “there are no scales to bear the weight of your empty claims;
Only He, who you passed by, as He wept for your pride in vain”.

“Now reap your harvest, man of works. Come meet my master in his prison of flames”.