The Gift of Time

The Gift of Time
It is a mystery what we call Time:
A little space of day which turns to night;
A little span of sorrow and delight:
Of tearful dirges and of joy-bells’ chime.
And yet its calm, slow-moving, noiseless feet
Can lead to glory-even thru defeat,
Enclose the wicked within their self-made bars,
And lift God-fearing souls beyond the stars!
O but foolish, blind, ungrateful souls are they
That, heedless, see no gift in each new day.

(Based on “A Jubilee Ode” by Mary Elizabeth Blake)

poem by Sean Wright
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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