Was there anything I might have done,
To stay the thoughts that have a hold of you?
Too late in this—
My faults recited for me again,
(Though they are often in my thoughts).
I rue the lost hours and days:
A finite life, this one,
Each hour, once gone, is gone forever,
A series playing out, our course to run.
I’ve heard God is found in the divine present,
How pleasant is the life he leads,
Not his the anguish
And the pain of a fleeting hour,
Left in confusion and wasted.