Promises, Promises
by Denny Lancaster | Into the new year, resolutions flowing,
all the well, too well we are knowing,
that the paper and promise is waste,
but in a moment promises are blowing.
What, without promises hurried whence,
will make the difference this year hence,
and will we drink of the promised wine
and swallow promises broken insolence.
If on an cherubs wings we could but ride,
broken promises perhaps set aside
for the shame is shame but not of him
why then can we not on these wings abide?
But even now with hope, promises spend
both you and me will break my dear friend
and if we doubt this statement is all too true
what is the price of what, may life depend?
If in a moment our life would but now unfold,
immersed in broken promises around rolled
but in this pastime, short compared to eternity
would Himself contrive, enact and then behold?
Through the veil our souls others can not see,
as if some dark hand casts upon all a spell
and in the after life our souls were new to be
then the opportunity to seek heaven or hell.
Oh how the dark prince upon us doth play
promises of putting changes for another day
but each day, closeness to Him do we slay
and within our closets our resolutions lay.
The moving finger writes; and, having writ,
moves on: nor all of our piety nor our wit
shall lure promises back even half a line
but HIS tears may not give all of us time. | Denny Lancaster
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