Satan Plays the Fiddle

Satan may play the fiddle,

But this verse is not a riddle,

Through life we spar with Satan's hand,

Yet we all end up returned to sand,

Our Maker's wrath we shall endure,

No shriek nor moan nor prayer,

Can save thee from thy own will

That raises thee upon on hill

Formed from thy toils, thy tribulations too

Will the scales of Judgement to you be shrew?

To be prudent is to die daily

Though you may go through life gayly

Satan's temptations we may forgo & scorn

Yet thou cannot escape Thee from the day we be born

Oh Death, you unspeakable thing

That terrifying other face of our great King

None knowth when thou cometh or cometh not

By your hand all things are wrought