The clock of life is wound but once,
And no man has the power
To tell just when the hands will stop.
At late or early hour.
To lose one’s wealth is sad indeed.
To lose one’s health is more,
To lose one’s soul is such a loss
That no man can restore.
Thirty-nine people died while you read this short poem. Every hour 5,417 go to meet their Maker. What are YOU doing to help reach them with the Gospel e’re they are cast
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