Time is an arrow that points one way,
A shaft launched by His hand toward
That great and terrible, long-last day
When all flesh, past and present, will
Come to stand before Him.
What was, is. That’s the way it goes
Here below, as the arrow flies straight
And true toward the One Who knows -
Has always known – how life’s course
Is determined day by day.
What-ifs and if-onlys, a sad contrail
Of chances missed or blown, follow in
Time’s wake: chaff of life, man’s tale
Of imperfection doing the best it can,
Which is none too good.
Unable to change the mistakes time
Set in stone, we’re prone to despair.
The consequences, like bells, chime
A refrain we’re hard-pressed to bear:
Mea maxima culpa.
But the Hand that lets fly the arrow
Also lifts over its path a healing Sun.
The Heart touched by each sparrow’s
Fall pities us, despite our mistakes,
And offers a healing.
So, though the arrow may fly one way
On its irreversible, inevitable course
Toward our tomorrows out from today;
The Eternal standing beyond its pow’r
Redeems our flawed past.
