Ecclesiastical

I sat once alone, without friends,
And having no company or destination
My mind got to wandering:
The flow of time, it seems,
Resembles water running over rocks,
Washing away the piles land has driven up
Like John Henry hammering with two picks
Or a mason mortaring brick on brick.
Shelters are good, yes, I don't dispute;
But is there not more beauty in a wild butte?
Everything I've made will someday subside.
I do not pride myself in thinking that
My work will be eternal. The surface isn't.
The drawings I create will be erased,
But the principles I draw from will last.
Everything God made was good,
But times have changed, But God is not dead.
It is a man's job to die.
The Earth the Lord has given us is swell,
So why in unlit prisons do we dwell?