When in my time I turn to dust,
and feed the flowers as I must,
I hope the Angels take what's left,
and bear it into Heaven's trust,
for I do not wish to pass the time,
while weather turns from clime to clime,
as food for beetles, mites and worms,
but something more sublime,
rising from the gloomy doom,
of ages passing in the tomb,
to know the glory of a speck of dust,
in Heaven's sitting room.
The cemetary angel image is used courtesy of a Creative Commons license, and is originally from here:
Thanks for reading and perhaps listening.