We, human beings, have the knack of not knowing what we have until it is gone; until it is too late and the cock has crowed.
We don’t tell each other about our love, until one of us is gone and the chance is passed up for all eternity, and
We overlook our family thinking they'll always be there, forgetting that their bonds of love are the ones that cushion the shocks of life, and
We take our friends for granted because we are too busy, and when we realize that time is fleeting, we are too late because they moved on without us, and
We hurt each other and hold on to the hurt and grudge, and vow to live to fight another day but in the years we forget what the quarrel was all about, and
We live for the cheap thrills and quick fixes and don’t stop to think, to thank; we forget that we are only here for a season.
We forget that,
When the last trump shall sound and our script is read, and
When we wonder if we had missed reading some words, or if there were words that we should have said but didn’t, and
When we finally stand muted before the imminence of mortality, then,
We might remember that we are human, replete with imperfections, and that
We have the knack of not knowing what we have until it is gone; until it is too late and the cock has crowed.
We might remember that we once took a savior for granted, and crucified him, and yet he was the Son of God.
We don’t tell each other about our love, until one of us is gone and the chance is passed up for all eternity, and
We overlook our family thinking they'll always be there, forgetting that their bonds of love are the ones that cushion the shocks of life, and
We take our friends for granted because we are too busy, and when we realize that time is fleeting, we are too late because they moved on without us, and
We hurt each other and hold on to the hurt and grudge, and vow to live to fight another day but in the years we forget what the quarrel was all about, and
We live for the cheap thrills and quick fixes and don’t stop to think, to thank; we forget that we are only here for a season.
We forget that,
When the last trump shall sound and our script is read, and
When we wonder if we had missed reading some words, or if there were words that we should have said but didn’t, and
When we finally stand muted before the imminence of mortality, then,
We might remember that we are human, replete with imperfections, and that
We have the knack of not knowing what we have until it is gone; until it is too late and the cock has crowed.
We might remember that we once took a savior for granted, and crucified him, and yet he was the Son of God.
