Of Seasons and Purpose...a Sonnet

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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?

Is the allotment of our labored breath

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

For Immortality put on a man

Creator bore the robe of servant-hood

As perfect love endured His Master-plan

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 .

Amazing Grace