Though time does always race the same for all,
Can we expect it to be always fair?
For with uneven hands the clocks display
As men are unevenly dealt their affairs.
To some, ticks leech away the sweet hours,
To some, the hours sweetly tick away,
The diff’rence being that time may torture
Or torturing be torched away.
With stoic face, the chronometer looks
Unblinkingly upon the epochs fading,
Searching, I think, for just one man,
One just man who keeps time waiting.
Quietly time’s race will soon reach its end,
Its uneven hands to embrace our Savior
In eternity where dealt affairs
And crooked hands no longer waver.