. Sleep Now the hour has come to lay me down Upon the waters of the river Lethe, To float into the maelstrom and to drown In swirling waves above me and beneath me. Who can recount those dark, forgotten hours When, having drunk the cup of Morpheus dry, We pass from daylight's realm, through gloomy bowers, To secret worlds hid from the wakeful eye? Who can recall that wild, nocturnal ride In sleep's swift chariot, charging out of sight Through deep oblivion’s blackest countryside, Lit up by sudden flashes in the night? Or who can call to mind that stormy sea Of dreams, that through the long night hours we sail? What ghostly hand is at the helm, as we Like drunken sailors, slumber through the gale? How strange to come up from that netherworld, Arising, like the dawn, all fresh and new, But with a curtain in our minds, unfurled To hide the scenes of night from memory’s view. Yet stranger still will be that final day When, waking from the deeper sleep of death, The curtain will be lifted to display The scenes we played before our final breath. Upon that day, our life on earth will seem More fleeting than the hours of night seem now, When, having wakened from a passing dream, We wonder that it seemed so long, somehow. Then shall each one receive according to The deeds done in the body while on earth; And some shall wake with joy, and some shall rue Eternally the day that gave them birth. And those who fall asleep in Him who spent Three days, ere waking, sealed in death’s repose, Shall likewise rest till night’s dark veil is rent, Then blossom in the morning like the rose! . . Where Do All the Moments Go? "Where do all the moments go, when once they leave our grasp? They seemed so real just yesterday! They surely must be near, Beyond the door, around the bend, not very far from here. I feel like I could touch them still; I sense them standing by; I see them shining out of reach, like rainbows in the sky. Oh, how I would their fleeting beauties to my bosom clasp! Where do the aromas roam when once they waft away? The scent of cooling cornbread from the oven, freshly baked, Of sweet vanilla icing on a homemade birthday cake, The summer scent of fresh mown grass strewn limply on the lawn, Or pancakes sizzling on the griddle when I’d wake at dawn? Oh, where do odors go when time’s wind blows at end of day? Where do sounds resound that rang out once in former times? The shouts, the raucous laughter, youthful gasps and groans and cheers, The whispered prayers from crushing cares that bore cathartic tears. The noble and heroic chants, the hours of joyful song, The endless flowing dialogues that lasted all night long, Oh, where do all the brave words go when lifetime’s midnight chimes? Where do all the bright scenes flee, when once they fade from view? Fun meals, fat tips on family trips in diners by the road, Romantic walks and fireside talks that lighten life’s hard load, Times spent with those we love from early childhood to the tomb--- Where go the precious scenes we’ve seen since first we left the womb At which we dimly gaze through evening haze as days accrue? They linger in our memory, though taken from our eyes, And shine within our dreams, like a perpetual sunrise. They stay with us from hour to hour, each evening and each day; We carry them from place to place along our pilgrim's way. Somehow, we never lose them, for we journey by their light; And when, like them, we’ve fled, we will remain in God's own sight. . . Martin Rizley grew up in Oklahoma and in Texas, and has served in pastoral ministry both in the United States and in Europe. He is currently serving as the pastor of a small evangelical church in the city of Málaga on the southern coast of Spain, where he lives with his wife and daughter. Martin has enjoyed writing and reading poetry as a hobby since his early youth.