There's not much that stands between life and death --
A heart that keeps beating -- lungs that hold breath,

Some masses of marrow, creating blood cells,
A functioning brain wherein a soul dwells,

We take it for granted, it's always worked fine,
Then suddenly illness indicates a fine line

Between hale and hearty and frail and weak --
Short of breath chasing the rewards we seek,

Someone close by, hardly half our age,
Cashes in his chips -- it might be "road rage,"

Even athletes -- cut down in their prime --
Many seem to fold before their time,

As I awake each morning to live another day,
Let me praise the dear Father -- ask that He show the way,

Not much of a gamble -- our chances are few,
No getting out alive, no matter what we do.

by D. Edgar Murray 01/28/2000.