Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life? Matt. 6: 26-27
Why do we choose to fret, or fuss and fume?
Each moment is a capsule we must fill
With our response to living’s good or ill
And we cannot its tendered ilk exhume
Where is the nucleus of our hope?
Is it in transient trust of things we see?
Do we clench in our mouths its vanity
Dissolving like the snow on sun-kissed slope?
What do we love with heart and soul and mind?
The treasures that we touch with hungry eyes
May be the gilded snare to our demise
And when we die we leave it all behind
When we profess the love of God in us
Does He become hope’s full Supremacy?
Or do we turn our trust to things we see
Thence choosing still to fret or fume and fuss
© Janet Martin