When walking down the street one morn,
a man stopped me, looking forlorn.
“Excuse me, do you have the time?”
To his surprise, I spoke in rhyme:

“A time for new life,
a time for death.
A time to cause strife,
a time to encourage.
A time to plant a seed,
a time to pull a weed.

A time to go kill,
a time to bring healing.
A time to keep still,
a time to speak out.
A time to let the tears run,
a time to simply have fun.

A time to let things go,
a time to draw them closer.
A time to war ‘gainst friend or foe,
a time to live at peace.
A time to never give up hope,
a time to leave the slippery slope.

A time to leave someone be,
a time for comfort.
A time to give generously,
a time to safely lock away.
A time to roughly tear,
A time to mend and wear.

A time for hate to rule the night,
a time for love to be our light.”

“But still, what is the time?” he asked.
“Too late,” I said, “Your time has passed.”