To withered old men at the end of their days
Death can arrive in numerous ways.
He clashes his cymbals to force them awake
To reveal to them their ultimate fate.
Sometimes he looks like an old angry dog
That sits by their side to gnaw on their bones.
He can also emerge with flowers and weeds,
Singing sweet songs to lull them asleep;
Sometimes he comes as a thief on the scene
Taking their lives on his small quiet feet.
Or He can arrive as a friend in their midst
To lead them away with a nod and a kiss.

But little it matters how it is done
Since the choice is not ours, no matter the day.
All we can do, is to hope and to pray
That the judgment is just, as we go on our way.
We will be judged by not how we die,
But how we had lived when we were alive.
Were we on the side of beauty and life?
Or did we give in to greed and to strife?
Let’s not shy away from the future unknown
But live every day of the life that we own.

- Finding the Light of G‑d, page 68