I wrote this some years ago but it still holds true.
Two Takes On Death
When people die, however dear,
There is a small and shameful voice
That whispers in the secret midnight grief:
"Thank God!" and breathes relief.
When William died I did not howl
As once I'd thought I must,
But amid the dry and sterile pain I thought
That nothing worse might come to him.
We who are cursed with the two-edged gift
Can see all futures and all endings
And sigh when worsened pains are spared
And let our loved ones go in peace.
How different then the warrior kind
Who thought it shame to die in bed,
Preferred a gory, glorious death
While we murmur, "Poor Soul,
He slipped away in sleep, thank God!"