Made from dust and to dust we return,
Everything we have and hold is fragile, we learn
What loves us today doesn't do so tomorrow
The next hour, the next minute or whatever time we borrow
So, what then truly is our worth?
Do we pass through this life with no relevance on earth?
Are we like this sad poem with no real joy to exude
I need to stop writing, I really should!
I saw a shelf of collectibles, the things I collect
I sat there silently: speckled and bedecked,
Figurines, art, and things of great worth
Oh, do I mean anything at all, on this earth?
It was then that I was told of a library so great
With shelves that ran from pillar to gate
Filled with rows upon rows of books and jars
In many different sizes, sparkling like stars
I stepped closer to take a look,
Expecting to read out of the crystal book
Something of great value and tremendous delight,
Instead I read something that glazed my sight.
I read that the jars contained the tears
Of all God's sons and daughters so dear
Inscribed in the book were the words so clear,
"My child, you are precious and so very dear...
I even collect your tears, though it breaks my heart
But they have a purpose to soften your heart
The seeds I have planted, will rise and grow
And soon you will rejoice and overflow.
You are My purpose, My joy and delight
Every part of you has a purpose, a plan, an insight!
So purposefully walk My way
And remember, you are Mine every day."