Time splays its parchment, still as air
Beneath the plight of human need
The ink of heart and soul spills where
One, its Giver attends, to read
Our penmanship, not misconstrued
Spells to His gaze both hope and fear
As He, so oft misunderstood
Lays page on page beneath our tear
And while before mute, pagan gods
Its seems that multitudes amass
To veil with noise what man applauds
Yet Death, oh, Death will soon surpass
…and while it seems many forget
That what they write is read by He
Who Holy, Holy, Holy bled
Redemption once, at Calvary
…and while it seems the age of words
Profits a man, if he
can spell
Regardless of what under-girds
The hand that writes what tongue won’t tell
…still, He who places air on air
Is never far or undeterred
But sees the faithful few aware
Of Who is reading every word
© Janet Martin
***
The pen reflects Time
Spent in prayer.
The hand a mouth,
The tongue, a lair
Pray we who write
On Time a bit
Remember Who
Is reading it
***
Beyond the readers we see is One we cannot...
Nothing escapes Holy Love, not one jot
So, lest we think we write with no reader
We would be wise to reconsider
***
My son, do not let wisdom and understanding out of your sight, preserve sound judgment and discretion; Prov.3:21
(inspired by a middle-of-the-night conversation with my son)
