by Luis G. Dato
My God, my God, with how swift wings the years
To make us old on earth too soon have flown,
As year on year life’s pageantry we’re shown
Through its kaleidoscope of hopes and fears,
Someday not known, we’ll ask, when the end nears:
What is it we have done or left undone,
What labor finished at the set of sun
As o’er life’s sea our day’s light disappears?
And then, O God, the further inquiry:
What’s life made of, is our clay but akin
To cosmic protoplasm, like the beast?
What O Your purpose and our destiny,
Why through such woe the flame of life we win?
Your answers ere we go let’s have at least!
