Ticktock, ticktock, until the spring has sprung in the works of a clock. As for such a piece, the time has now ceased, but there are others that continue to talk. Ticktock, ticktock.
The hands have ceased to move, they no longer know the passage of time. They are suspended behind the glass, they will never again to the top of the hour climb.
With precision, it ran through the ages and now is broken down by the passing of time. Became worn with the turning of life’s pages, but with new works can recapture its’ prime.
We know that the clock is merely a gauge, used to measure this invisible span. It can’t be caught and kept in a cage, it won’t be touched and held in our hand.
It’s counted by minutes, months, and years, while it ceaselessly marches ahead. At moments it stands still, or at least it appears, while at others in haste it has fled.
For some, we know that this time in which we’re bound is only for a moment at most. We know that all clocks shall cease at the sound of the trumpet which announces our Heavenly Host.
For those who are of the household of faith, this will mark time with no end. We know that eternity is not counted by days, for at that moment, time shall truly suspend.
All Rights Reserved Copyright © 1995 Kerry T Crane
