Time is a gift whose measure is unknown
Save that our lives are metered in its sands,
And metaphors of sand have often shown,
Fine particles slip through the strongest hands.
A minute wasted is a minute lost;
An hour passed is never found again,
For time so tallied sums its righteous cost
And life thus squandered does fair gift defame.
As precious minutes slide through narrowed glass
So does sweet life slip forward to its end,
And surely as this day shall come to pass—
Tomorrow can’t its yesterday amend.
Then mark these words and measure hence your time;
As metered worth makes measure of this rhyme.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.