The hands on a clock—

They’re always moving—

Marking the passing of hours—

One after another into history.

 

My hands—

They are always moving as well,

Moving me through these hours,

Busying me with daily tasks.

 

These tasks seem long

In the middle of the hours.

Reading aloud to the class,

Having discussions with

Students and friends,

Correcting papers, drinking lattes

With foam sticking to my lips,

Doing relaxation on the floor,

Snuggling my little dog.

 

These are the things

That fill up the minutes

That fill up the hours

Of each passing day.

 

And though they seem long

In the midst of them,

We so quickly look back

On them as they’ve turned

Into memories.

 

So we must steward well

The passing of hours.

We’ve only been allotted so many,

And they are quickly wasted.

 

We must view every hour

As a gift from God

And use it for his purposes

Rather than our own.

 

And if we do—

One day we’ll look back

On a golden string of past hours

Glistening with joy and purpose

Rather than darkened with waste and ruin.

 

Lord, give me grace to use

These hours well for you.

 

Photo by Andrik Langfield on Unsplash.