To all conducted along by Your hands,

You give them their ev’ry running season.

From beginning to end, all median plans

Fall sway and bow to Your holy reason.

From yesterstars to morning’s dawning skies,

You make and part the dark from warming light.

All time laid bare and known before Your eyes,

You alone mark its old and faithful flight.

Future marches stead’ly toward the past

Under Your watchful supervising eye.

Unwavering that steadfast march does last, 

O which temp’ral creature could quantify?

But beyond this dusky shelf’s edge of life

Looms near and long the staring pale of death – 

Ours are moments fleeting given to thrive,

The next heartbeat, a last whisper of breath.

What manner of sorrowed pity is ours?

To die body and soul rendered atwain.

Yet greater the pity of living hours:

To all hope on vapours and live in vain.

So draw us near, us sinful wand’ring strays,

You who hold fast onto the leash of time.

Teach us to number our down-dwindling days,

To wean us from dust of this mortal clime.

To You we commit our noons and shadows,

Till that hour at last Your face we shall see – 

For though You have not promised tomorrow,

In Christ a greater thing: eternity.

— Mark Chia, 2023