Three Clocks


On a shelf in my soul sits a wooden hourglass,
Where sands no longer run.
The top bell is empty; the bottom is still,
Reminding me of His work that’s been done.
Resting, quiet, and peaceful,
This timepiece no longer enslaves.
The war is over, and victory is won
Through an empty cross and grave.

On the wall of my soul hangs an analog clock.
Gears driving hands make them spin.
Always in motion, circling each hour,
Sounding His power to change me within.
Ticking, steady, and pointing
To where I most need healing truth.
From this clock’s gentle sweeps, pruning cuts are made;
His hands of Grace make me new.
The tower of my soul holds a timer unseen
That marks time not yet begun.
Its unsteady rhythm is foreign and strange;
Sporadically ringing glory to come.
Gonging, chiming, it beckons,
Calling out to those who need light.
When the alarm sounds, we’ll feast with the King,
In a New Heaven and Earth made right.
My soul is host to these three clocks;
A trio of time zones share space.
They point to the past, present, and future,
And a time-enduring story of grace.
Justifying, sanctifying, and glorifying,
Each of the three play a part
In His story of love, The Gospel Truth,
Which tolls the bell in my heart.

Inspired by a sermon entitled “The Christ of Three Time Zones” 

Bob Hopper, Interim Pastor, Central Presbyterian Church, Saint Louis, Missouri 

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