The world wears airs of gain and loss
And winter’s quiet trees
Where wings winds lonesome wail across
The corpse of centuries
Daybreak births untried lows and highs
Earth’s seasoned eons ache
While Heaven wakes its latest prize
For dusk alone to take
Beneath the arc of thinning dark
Time’s tin cup tips and spills
With gold to rich and poor alike
It fades far blue foothills
Today; ah, what a little word
And yet, how very large
As human heart and soul is stirred
By Mercy’s awesome charge
Where we of little more than faith
Touch time’s fresh-fashioned sprees
And trample the white-shrouded wraith
Of frozen centuries
...to fan the flame of hope and love
Where our forefathers lie
Their footsteps silenced in a trove
Of truths that cannot die
© Janet Martin
Do not be deceived:
God cannot be mocked.
A man reaps what he sows.
Gal.6:7
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