Running Out the Clock

That one's clock just winds down is my vote for time's end, Though to run out your clock sounds like you have a choice, Or that ego's involved, judgment's rushed, Grace came late. But time's arrow is no oxymoron, my friend. DId time start with 'Big Bang,' or did nothingness tire? Should poor politics turn the least tiller of state It would prove truth is dead, or that God has no voice. That a man draws fate's longbow's a joke (or satire)! We are notes, less than motes, never moats! Can't protect The least thing that's essential, we're light waves with mass! We are glints in God's eye, as He gives birth to dreams That imagine a dreamer, or more - architect. Can our love then extrapolate Lover's caress, Know headwaters, Love's length, or Its delta from streams, See that God shares our sorrows, and fondness for grass, Or that death's an illusion if we will confess? Is there virtue in those who are born tightly wound Or does Grace see as equals the high and the low? Do we curry God's favor by tickling His ribs Or can sinners still please Him who don't make a sound? Let my virtue be this, that I trust in Christ's blood While I know I'm a sinner, not saint, fond of bibs That I often wear breakfast on! How would I know? Let me live in God's mercy or die in His flood! Brian Johnston April 7th in 2020