Accounting for the passage

[fledgist]

In all we do, there's always a small voice
inside our heads that carps and critiques
each single act;  another thing that seeks
to let us know the consequence of choice.
There's always a sort of record, an invoice,
to take account of hours, days and weeks,
the depths we sink to, and the highest peaks;
another voice, though, bids us to rejoice.
Between the rocks, in each life's narrow course,
the water flows cold and amazing deep;
till it reach ocean not a one will drown.
The surge and life itself will not divorce,
we'll hear the voices even when we sleep,
and each of us in turn will earn a crown.