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Poem	A minute,—how soon it is flown!And yet, how important it is!God calls every moment His own,—For all our existence is His:And tho’ we may waste many moments each day,He notices each that we squander away.We should not a minute despise,Although it so quickly is o’er;We know that it rapidly flies,And therefore should prize it the more.Another, indeed, may appear in its stead;But that precious minute, for ever, is fled.’Tis easy to squander our yearsIn idleness, folly, and strife;But, oh! no repentance nor tearsCan bring back one moment of life.Then wisely improve all the time as it goes,And life will be happy, and peaceful the close.
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