Time is rolled out like the grass in the fields,
With ev’ry blade a pinpointed moment,
Every weed a happening that yields,
Each living thing has the great One’s consent.
He tends, and cares about, all that He sees,
Gathering up the rain and the sun’s rays,
And distributing to them all their needs,
What a wonder it is to know His ways.
Viewing the ants that scuttle through the green,
He bends his ear to listen to their cries,
Voices through the ages burning and mean,
The Creator sorrows, shakes His head and sighs.