Sunday, April 6, 2014

Where Words Reach...or Night Watchman

Words reach into the air where the Night Watchman never sleeps
Thought yearns and turns to prayer beneath His ever-list’ning keep
The filament of hours spills its will to yesterday
We stoop to count hope’s pocket-pence a-scattered in its fray
Time’s touch is ever hungry for those things beyond its reach
We gather in its rendering the lessons it must teach

And some find mirth and money while others find only pain
For some the skies are sunny and for some it always rains
The Night Watchman loves all the children of Time’s trying sphere
He is the witness to our need, our greed, both smile and tear
And while some stuff their larders where another licks the crumbs
Time does not beg or barter but forevermore becomes…

…becomes the aftermath of choice, the proof of our first love
Often the hand becomes the voice as thought dons living’s glove
And while some loll in coffers laden with silver and gold
Others endure love's offers of grief, loneliness and cold
The Night Watchman never forsakes His post but tends full-well
His people harboring a soul bound for heaven or hell

How still the night expands into black eons overhead
Foolish to flex our gifted hands and boast ‘bout gifted bread
For all we have is but the granting of God’s grace whereby
We go, whether with humble praise or bitter quest of ‘why’
The Night Watchman longs for the prayer where care and need beseech
He bends His ever-list’ning ear to where whispered words reach…

© Janet Martin

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