Remove this poison drip from my aching wrist,
Lift me from this sick stead,
Place me in some bluebird's nest, nature's newborn tryst,
Carry me from my death bed,
Counting down from ten, nine, eight, seven, six,
Fix angel wings on my withered back,
Six, and six, and six, across the river Styx,
Raise me from the dead,
As five makes its final mark, then four and three,
Take my hand, guide me along that spiritual track,
While sacred numbers ascend that spiritual tree,
Wipe beads of acrid sweat from off my fevered forehead,
So two, those angels that lift me up to thee,
Lead me to heaven's gate, where there is no lack of love,
One becomes, bestows that final gift, 'cross that cosmic sea,
Ope my cloudy eyes, let radiance light my way,
Adorn my soul with feathers, from that peaceful dove,
Instruct my psyche with gleaming words that golden seraphs say,
Grant me courage on this day, so life's mem'ries are never lost,
Sparkling, pure, the way is clear, illumined by God's shining ray,
Across that threshold, from earthly death to soul-filled life, a karmic cost,
No longer any pain, nay thirst, nor hunger, on this enlightened day,
Like Lazarus, I have risen, into that realm of heaven,
That promised land, where God exists, and all our sins forgiven.