A Shelf Clock Automaton

The price was worth it, so it seemed; It was right and not a penny more. Here the clock will sit, here it will count Its days - round and round its hands Will spin – metered by its spirit within. Embedded in its mahogany tomb And gilded by an exacting eye Only seldom will you hear it cry With the hours that amble by. Atop the clock’s mantle green Within a parapet of stone There you’ll see a sailing ship With wooden masts and ivory sails Pitching to and fro against an angry sea Heralding the arrival of each anticipated eve. Standing on the shoreline resolute and sworn, A gilded sailor wields a rope To lasso those who mourn; He offers to them the strand of hope. A stone wall crumbles across the sea, A fortuitous port of call reveals How brief life’s glory can be As it makes its unwary fall. The golden wreath of life eternal Surrounds the clock’s face To show assuredly our victory Over death’s dark embrace. Descending sea serpents sinuously wind Beside the timeless garland shrine To gather at a feast of shells Mingled with some flailing scales; Even in the depths of shadows, This mahogany tomb yields its enslaved To the resurrection of the saved. Gilded tulips etched in a circle Atop the clock’s opulent base Testifies to the supernal foundation Of Christ’s unchanging grace. Though just a clock, it’s slightly more As you gaze deeper into its obvious lure; Where some things are as they seem, Others hold to a different scheme.