Time is of the essence
For those of us who are clothed in flesh,
Whose spirit dwells in a temporary tent
Built of blood and bones.
We are born, live, and die,
Drawing our first and final breaths
Within its rigid boundaries.
Sun, moon, and stars regulate time and tide,
Night and day, new moons and seasons.
Calendars indicate the distinctions
Between our days, weeks, and months.
Clocks and watches methodically mark
Our seconds, minutes, and hours
On this spinning blue ball called Earth.
Solomon, the Sage of Scripture,
Announces a season for all things--
Time to kill and die, weep and mourn,
Hate and make war, uproot and tear down.
But also to laugh and dance, build and mend,
Love and embrace, heal and make peace.
Happy/Sad. Good/Bad. This is life.
So many worship "Father Time,"
Instead of time's Father,
Living a strictly measured life
Constrained by schedules, appointments,
Alarm clocks and Daytimers.
Do this. Stop that. Be here. Go there.
We mustn't even stop for air.
Time ticks the tale of our sojourn here.
Will we wantonly waste it,
Or will it be God-guided and well-spent?
Do we whine and moan for "more time,"
When we should be longing and praying
For no more time at all--ever again,
Being swallowed up by vast, endless Eternity?
One day a celestial trumpet blast
Will shatter this world's hourglass,
Loosing us from Time's greedy grasp
To soar unbounded, free at last.
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