At the End

O world, o world,
You languish so in pain.
You wait until my Lord doth come again.
For He will gather all to him
And sort through all
The joyous and the grim.
His choices will be all perfect.
His decisions all exact.
All will be well then.
All will be intact.
Heaven filled with lowly sinners bought by grace,
Hell filled with those who had no trace
Of mercy, tenderness or love
Toward the human race.
Nor worse toward their God.
His decisions all will be true.
No one can with them argue.
Once life is o’er
His decision will be lore.