It separates the beginning from the end
but of the race it does not contend
It has no authority
but in it rests the majority
It does not feel
but in it we heal
It is measured by hands
but it has no feet to stand
It does not assert
but with it we may convert
It gives memories to last
but they are found in its’ past
It is loved
but hated
It’s as unrelenting as the hot summer sun
but it never sets; its’ work is never done
It is owned by none
but we borrow from its’ infinite sum
It neither pushes nor pulls
but over it we change direction
It has no character of its’ own
but it reveals in us what is sewn
It has no obligation
but to linger in it is procrastination
It exudes patience
but with nagging persistence
It gives moments of favor
but leaving us only to savor
It is an idol for some, adorned with silver and gold
but it is never ours to hold
It is shared across continents
but if asked of another to give, they may resent
Its’ essence is existence
but it bears no physical presence
It exposes man’s spiritual infirmity
but silences the flesh as we pass to eternity
It first took the stage with its’ beginning in Creation
but its’ final act will be in the unveiling of the Revelation.

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