Death came to a blacksmith with his scythe and asked him to sharpen it. The terrified blacksmith started the task hoping death wasn’t there for him.
As he worked on the scythe, the blacksmith looked at it and said:
“I can’t believe I’m holding a weapon that has killed so many.”
Death leaned in towards the blacksmith and said:
“I didn’t kill anyone. Not a single person. It’s you who kill each other and blame me. I was once a handsome man when I was first entrusted with the duty of escorting people to their final destinations. But that was before I met people’s souls.”
“And now?”, the blacksmith asked.
“Now I wear black clothes to hide the blood on me. I wear a hood to conceal the tears I have cried because I cannot stop the horror of human hatred.”
Death then took the scythe and began to walk away.
“Wait! I have one last question!”
Death turned around.
“Why do you carry a scythe at all?”
Death smiled and said:
“The road to heaven has long been overgrown with grass. After all, I rarely get to use that path.”