Seasons; the filament of mortal year
Four-season worth and never more or less
The palm on which we lay our toil and tear
A cradle for our grief and happiness
Four quarters make a whole, thus nature’s course
Of seasons flow, not by human design
Beneath this universe a Mighty force
With naught but thought, these galaxies align
As we submit; for none dissuades the tide
Of Time’s incessant ever-forward stride
What lies beyond this cosmic altitude?
…off-spring of Adam’s marred and sullied bliss
Why is the spirit shaken and subdued
As we behold life’s dust-fraught wantonness?
The beauty poured against earth’s frigid sod
As spring imbues its budded tendril; hope
And hope yields harvest if imbued by God
Returns at last to fill this earthen scope
Seed to the soil; proprietor and slave
Sleep side by side within a common grave
What is the purpose of the boasts of men?
What is the point of life when it is spent?
Is it the hope of three-score-years and ten?
Is this the pinnacle of our content?
And when we lay aside our gathered worth
To fold our hands upon a lifeless breast
Is this the sum of it; as cold, hard earth
Reclaims our empty shells of nothingness?
Simply a forward tumble to our death?
Four season’s worth; these are the fronds of dust
The purpose of life’s gift we cannot grasp
Within the greedy fingers of our lust
But with the eyes of faith its truth we clasp
Creator bore the robe of servant-hood
Securing hope for sinners through His blood
We are not victims of four-season sod
Bought with a price; we are the heirs of God
© Janet Martin
...and this is the Living Hope which imbues duty with beauty, pain with gain, daily strife with Life .