Poetry

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COME QUICKLY

The grains of time, they ponder
The world's shorthanded play
And race through hourglass straining
For the dawn, the light, the Day.

It shall come with Sonrise bursting
And arrive with trumpet blast
The cessation of the ending
The fulfillment come at last.

The Son of Man awaiteth
The victory in that Morn
What's transpired in the meanwhile
What tempestuous, soul-tossed storm!

"I have seen my saints in shackles gripped
By pain and death and sorrow.
But I'll wait no more to unleash the vial
For I come upon the morrow."

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