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stone slab, the memorial will soon be forgotten.
Today burial ground is at a higher premium that farm acreage-

this is a fact, not an opinion. Does this mean that dying is more im-

portant than living?

me?

anonymous

Like silvery liquid, shining boldly,
Sliding through grasping fingers,
Time moves on, passing coldly,
And in the past, there nothing lingers.
In looking forward, the present spent
Becomes the past and all is gone.
In searching, longing our lives are bent
And from the past our hopes are drawn.
A nd clammy terror presses down-
A clinging all-pervading fear.
Looking for what we've never found,
We, wandering, wonder why we're here.
A reason, an answer-that's all we ask.
To recapture that love, (our chance, we hope)-
A flitting moment which now has passed,
In selfish need and fright we grope.
And time moves on, and now we run
To take our place before we die,
To find some solace, but finding none.
And all that we can do is try.
But time is short and soon we know
We've wasted life, we're past our prime.
The liquid does not trickle slow.
There is no time-there is no time!
We must find now that Lord we love.
Let Him guide us while we're young,
Now draw our strength from God above,
Add actions to the hymns we've sung.
Time ticks away, I fear we've lost,
Youth has passed, and still in doubt
We face our death. Our lives we've crossed.
We found not God. Our time ran out!

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