The Poem of Labid
Yea, everything is vain, except only God alone,
and every pleasant thing must one day vanish away!
And all the race of men—there shall surely come among them
a Fearful Woe, whereby their fingers shall grow pale:
And every mother's son, though his life be lengthened out
to the utmost bound, comes home at last to the Grave:
And every man shall know one day his labour's worth,
when his loss or gain is cast up on the Judgment Day.