Telling Time

Can you tell time?  Or, does it tell you -
Where to go, what to do, maybe even who to be?
And what, then, do you answer?  How do you plea -
Before the winding and the wringing of lifeless gears and restless hands?

"No," dear pilgrim.  Time was made for us -
Though it is not of our making.  It belongs to everyone
And it is here in sufficiency for every purpose under heaven.

Can you tell me?  Or, let me ask -
How something is saved, wasted and spent
That can't be borrowed; won't be lent?  And why try to steal
Or fear to lose what finds us seldom grateful for the priceless gift that it is?

"Why," indeed.  "How," in truth.  When each moment
Bears within itself all the promise of the beginning of time -
The end of days - and the boundless love of God who encompasses them all.