Time passes not for all alike;
for children lost in play and song,
a year compared to four or five
seems oh so long.
For heads grown gray or silver white,
a year augmented sixtyfold
is but a fraction of a life
now growing old.
And once our death removes the veil,
all memory of our past retrieved,
much like a dream, a year will pass
scarcely perceived.
A thousand years is but a day,
one age an hour, one life a sigh;
a year next to eternity,
a twinkling eye.
And yet, another year of sin,
of pride and passion unrestrained,
may leave my unrepentant soul
forever stained.
God, grant that when I come to Thee,
the memory of this coming year
may bring a twinkling to my eye
and not a tear.

Because we have no memory of our pre-earth existence, we are slaves to the notion of time. Birth and death are our boundaries, and our only reference is our mortal experience. Yet, both revealed truth and our own reasoning teach us that we have always and will always exist, and that any measured period, be it a moment or a lifetime, is infinitely insignificant in an eternal existence. Still, we are here for a purpose, and that purpose gives meaning to our mortal moment. However small it may be, that moment has eternal consequences.

I began this poem on the extra space on the back of a Sacrament meeting program while in Craig Peterson's gospel doctrine class in the Hillcrest First Ward. Something someone said prompted my reflection.