Running Out the Clock
That one's clock just winds down is my vote for time's end,
Though to run out your clock sounds like you have a choice,
Or that ego's involved, judgment's rushed, Grace came late.
But time's arrow is no oxymoron, my friend.
DId time start with 'Big Bang,' or did nothingness tire?
Should poor politics turn the least tiller of state
It would prove truth is dead, or that God has no voice.
That a man draws fate's longbow's a joke (or satire)!
We are notes, less than motes, never moats! Can't protect
The least thing that's essential, we're light waves with mass!
We are glints in God's eye, as He gives birth to dreams
That imagine a dreamer, or more - architect.
Can our love then extrapolate Lover's caress,
Know headwaters, Love's length, or Its delta from streams,
See that God shares our sorrows, and fondness for grass,
Or that death's an illusion if we will confess?
Is there virtue in those who are born tightly wound
Or does Grace see as equals the high and the low?
Do we curry God's favor by tickling His ribs
Or can sinners still please Him who don't make a sound?
Let my virtue be this, that I trust in Christ's blood
While I know I'm a sinner, not saint, fond of bibs
That I often wear breakfast on! How would I know?
Let me live in God's mercy or die in His flood!
Brian Johnston
April 7th in 2020
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