Man, Death and Their Mutual Friend

Is there a sweeter friend to man than Death?
For it is Death who, patient, holds the door.
He's at our bedside for our final breath
And visits every land on every shore.
A mother mourns the son that's left her reach,
But death enclosed both in his embrace.
He guards his Guests within his Gothic Keep,
And Saints are ever gladdened by his face.
But ah! These things are hellish but for Christ!
Without Death's King, his Keep? A Blackish Hole!
And every man'd be trapped in endless night
Without a Heaven to reclaim their souls.
He's but a friend who sweetly holds the door
That's gate to God, a Friend who's sweet still more.