Stained leaves come down shorn by crass autumn winds,
Proud gold of green crenated on the ground,
Stark proof that Time gives quarter to no things,
No earthly object raised of blood or stone;
So marks the creeping rust upon the sword,
So marks tall castles rumbled to decay,
So marks the dimming of the holy word —
What monument of worth can Time not slay?
But life renews where stone is ground to sand
And in the spring lime buds will dab the trees
And blood yet through new blood ‘gainst blade shall stand,
So too will hope, through love of deity.
Though Time strides on amidst his murderous reign,
So life renews, though oft may death there feign.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.