A poem: John 21

When you were young, your hands were free
and where you willed, you went;
In old age you will follow me
suspended head-down on a tree
you'll go where you are sent."

We conjure fates we could not bear
and run to get away;
With fervent hope and patient care,
with cry and shout "It is not fair!"
We hold our fear at bay.

Until at last our hands are bound,
our face is turned to see
What we feared most, like some dread hound
is but the means by which we're crowned
And find true liberty.

(I wrote this in 1996; all rights reserved--not that it's good, but that it's mine.)