The Measured Man

He strides in steps both small and sure,
A godly man with faith secure,
Who speaks of heaven’s open gate—
Unmoved by loss, untouched by fate.

His gaze, precise, to skies inclined,
A perfect piety confined.
No thought of death, he claims aloud,
Though it trails him close, a heavy shroud.

He stood that day in solemn black,
Behind the pulpit, poised, intact—
To mourn a friend now silent, cold,
With words sharp-edged, and purpose bold.

A friend once fierce, with life to yield,
Who took the path this man concealed.
In grief’s disguise, he claimed the right
To speak of straying from the light.

“A fitting end,” he said, serene,
“For those who walk where sin has been.”
Beneath his tone, a veiled disdain
For courage lost and hinted pain.

Yet deep within, he hides his awe—
The fear that gnaws like hidden law.
For where his friend dared fate’s abyss,
He clings to safety, cloaked in bliss.

And though his sermon cast him high,
A watcher close to God’s own eye,
A trembling creeps within his hand—
Uncertain faith on shifting sand.

He speaks of souls that stray and fall,
Yet, it’s himself he fears above all.
For in the depths of grief’s dark art,
He buries envy in his heart.