This fact I hold up before me -
we are all flowers of the field.
What once was strong, enduring
must one day pass away. 

Time brings little deaths,
minor infirmities,
adding up, year on year.
Have I not felt it? 

Creations of a moment:
growing, blooming, fruiting, falling.
But I find this surprise in myself -
Why does it not cause despair? 

It should! My sum total
adds only to that treasured by others:
Where the railing, bitter
against perceived injustice? 

But, my heart has been given
to One who makes sense.
I hope, beyond time,
that one day, all will be made new! 

Anew, and no longer awry.
With wrong burned out
in purgation, with evil
washed away in Blood. 

And only goodness and worth,
glory and dignity remaining,
such as we have allowed,
created by our assent. 

Come quickly, no time to lose!
Each day a new opportunity
for treasure stored up for ever,
where rust and moth are not. 

Unspeakable gift made possible
by unspeakable sacrifice
of the only One who could make it:
Glory in despite of darkness. 

Though the fruit has fallen,
and the leaves are turning,
all that is of worth
is recorded, to be played again some day, 

where halleluias ring harmonies
in beauty and sweetness,
in sunshine on leaves,
in smiles on fair faces. 

Made possible by Love.
And our love, made freely,
only adding to the harmony:
The Glorious Symphony of All That Has Being!