Squandered Time
Men sprouted from dust; his motives inverted.
In a monetary exchange, he trades the truth for his lie.
His bedsheets are a woven dark mist, its frame is like rubber.
He adores his reflection, as time wears it to wrinkles.
His folly, the fool, is his foundation towards wisdom.
Death is his love; its picture surrounds him.
Christ’s order in view, he puts on his blinders.
Each day the sun rises, each day the sun sets.
Each day the moon sheds her light.
The man is too busy, distracted by distraction.
One foot in front of the other, he knows not his end.
By God's grace, he’s alive, but by choice he has slept.
The love of the world is too much to sacrifice.
Years later death finds him, he awakes in decay.
His worm never dies, and his thirst stays alive.
His reflection has melted, the truth is in sight.
His fate is decided. The grace is gone. His cries fall on deaf ears.
Perpetual pain. Perpetual sentences. Each begin with:
“If only…”
I have always been fascinated by the countless excuses men make to avoid their creator, this curiosity was my motive for this poem. Much of this fascination comes from reflecting upon my own experience before God made me a new creature. It should be this way. It should be that way. It should be my way. Our way. Man’s way. The further you embark down the left-handed path the more burdensome it becomes. No matter how overbearing, Christ's yoke is easy. Praise God for a good savior who brings us from death to life, and only requires our trust in him (Romans 10:9).
For by grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God: Not of works, lest any man should boast. Ephesians 2:8-9
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