My Soul

What matter flowers in the spring,
the gardens where I stroll,
what matter any, everything
unless I save my soul?

What matters nature's loveliness,
the way the seasons roll,
or all creation here unless
I save my sinful soul?

So what for my ambitions great,
each high and lofty goal,
if I but underestimate
the value of my soul?

So what for all my earthly pain,
the aches that take their toll,
unsacrificed they are in vain
and cannot serve my soul.

What good my good deeds if faith fails
to stamp them on the scroll?
They'll weigh but little on the scales
if I don't use my soul.

What good the learning and the work,
if I do not enroll
in spiritual things that most will shirk
but magnify my soul?

Each moment I live on the earth
I'm serving but parole,
the timepiece reckoning from my birth
the service of my soul.

Each template of my tragic term
some shallow actor stole;
is an imposter, braggart, worm,
more precious than my soul?

When I take note of every place
I've docked from pole to pole,
it only matters with what grace
I've tended to my soul.

When I look back on all I've done
as I draw near the shoal,
all things will pale compared to one,
the saving of my soul.

            -- by Pete Voelz     12/04