You wait at the edge of every green pasture,
shadow stretched across the pilgrim path.
I hate you, my greatest foe,
last adversary to be undone,
a tyrant who for ages
has mocked the dust of Adam.

And yet—
beyond the swollen river,
beyond the cold and trembling ford,
the gates of the Celestial City rise.
Faithful saints, in their final crossing,
feel the flood seize them,
but hear voices from the shore:
“Be of good courage,
the King Himself has passed this way.”

So I walk with you, strange companion,
hating your touch,
yet needing your hand to take me home.
I call you enemy.
Destroyer, you rend body from the soul,
and tear what was once whole.
I call you servant,
for you usher through the veil,
laying down the final burden,
opening the final door.

Christ the King has conquered,
yet He calls still to enter by the grave,
to step into the dark
and find it filled with light.
O mystery:
that what slays me
is what saves me,
that what robs me
is what carries me
to the throne of Him
who swallowed death in victory.

I hate you, yet I embrace you, my enemy and my escort.