Time is endless in Your hand, O God. There is none to count
Your minutes.
Days and
nights pass, and ages bloom and fade like flowers. You know
how to wait.
Your
centuries follow one another in perfecting a small wildflower.
We have no
time to lose, and having no time, we must scramble for our
chances. We are too poor to be late.
Thus it is
that time goes by, while I give it to every querulous person
who claims it, and Your altar is empty of all offerings to the
last.
At the end of
the day, I hasten in fear lest the gate be shut, but I find
there is yet time.
Rabindranath
Tagore
(1861-1941)
