The hand sweeps across the clock's face,
Vicious the tyranny, this machine time;
Unavoidable is this harsh race,
Having no grace for us to find.
March, we must, to expected end,
Failing to keep our belov'd breath;
Our dear life's a failing friend,
It must succumb to impending death.
Forlorn, forsaken, each and every soul,
Comes to the bridge, though resistant;
This truth alone, we are not whole,
We cannot win, despite our insistence.
Yet, there is, beyond our heart,
A sacred whisper speaking our answer;
The One had come, to wit, impart,
Grace to stand against this cancer.
Stepped into time from eternity,
To use it for our good,
The Law of God came with mercy,
To love as He only could.
Trodding the curse and bridling death,
With a reign of infinite measure;
He can save with just a breath;
Use death for His leisure.
Pride alone can keep us from
The gift so paid with higher wages;
Submit to the king, kiss the Son,
Once foretold by anointed sages.
© Bob Barra, 3-21-08
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