Hear Me, Lord!

A poor man's final prayer for his life and his impending death.

Oh, Lord, spare me! I'm afraid, oh God, terribly afraid. I’m sure I might die.

My death is drawing or so near, I can feel it, see it in the distance. Any day now, I'm sure of it. It's near!

And, oh, how I dread it. The fear, it drives me, haunts me; it's making me paranoid, as an adulterer or as a mother might be. Worse than!

I can't help but fear, but wonder, even, Lord: what will it be?

What will be the death of me, Father? My imagination curses me! Will it be from illness, from disease? Or what if from tragedy? A terrible accident! Or what if I offend someone? Might there be a price on my life?

Oh, but what could it be!

Disease takes so many every hour. Pneumonia, infection, organ failure, cancer, influenza, heart attacks, and even the common cold.

However, unless there's a sudden outbreak, I can't imagine it'd be from disease. I'm not an ill man, nor was I ever a sickly child. I'm as healthy as a horse, as strong as an ox. I eat, I sleep, I move; no history or inheritance of disease. It cannot be my health, it mustn't be!

Accidental! Sudden death, oh the horror! I can already see the headlines: "Town Grieves Unexpected Loss of Promising Young Adult," "Local Man’s Sudden Death Stuns Neighbors." Oh, spare me!

What might it be? Anything and everything is a possibility! The roof could collapse on me; a chandelier from the ceiling; a piano from the skies!

Oh, but what's the probability after all? What's the chance of a chandelier coming down from my dirt roof? What are the odds it rains instruments? I've no such luck! Besides, I'm not so anxious as to fret over the what-ifs and the maybes.

In any case, I know my death is approaching, and soon. The Reaper will not wait on Lady Luck.

Then, if not illness or chance, then what, oh Lord? What will take my life? Or who!

Murder; the scandal! Might I upset a mighty man, an angry man? Even a simple man can be driven to violence! Perhaps they'll put a hit on me in the black market. Or I could simply be at the wrong place at the wrong time. A simple bystander in a robbery, or kidnapped and be sold in The Underground—or, rather, my organs. Could it be from a blade, from a bullet, even from a saw? Who knows!

Ah, but I do. Who have I offended, Lord? I'm smart and witty; gentle and kind. As Lincoln, I rid of my enemies when I make them my friends! A crime of passion? I have no lover! A betrayal? I'm too picky, too careful. I give no reason to stab, no cause for pain. Who have I offended, Father?

And I repeat: I'm not so paranoid as to imagine an assassin sent by an unknown enemy, or that I might be suddenly stabbed and robbed.

Oh, so what, Lord? What might it be? Tell me, before it comes, for it is soon! If I am neither slave, nor victim, nor target, then what, Father?

Oh, why do I jest? I'm tired, so terribly tired of it all. Forgive me, Lord. You know, and so do I.

I'm afraid I'll die, Lord.

I'm afraid I'll kill myself.