The Appointed Seasons

A Poem Inspired by Ecclesiastes 3:1-4

Beneath the wide and patient sky

Where silent constellations turn,

The earth receives the measured hours

For which all living hearts must yearn.

For nothing moves without its time,

No leaf unfolds by chance alone;

The breath of days, the pulse of years,

Are by a hidden wisdom sown.

There is a season wrapped in dawn

When life awakens from the clay,

A trembling cry, a fragile spark

Announcing yet another day.

Soft hands receive the tender breath,

New eyes behold the waiting earth,

And hope, like spring upon the hills,

Stands radiant beside that birth.

Yet there is also evening’s call,

When lamps grow dim and footsteps slow;

When weary bones return to dust

And quiet winds begin to blow.

The river that once leapt with strength

Falls silent near the shadowed shore,

And souls, like birds at twilight’s edge,

Pass through a half-remembered door.

There is a time when fields are bare

And patient farmers sow the seed,

Their trust cast deep in unseen soil

Where faith alone fulfills the need.

They walk away beneath gray skies,

No green to promise what shall be,

Yet in the darkness life prepares

Its quiet, hidden ministry.

And there will come the harvest sun,

When golden wheat bends low and wide,

And laughter travels through the rows

Where patient hands no longer hide.

The sickle sings its ancient song,

The barns grow full with thankful store,

And hearts remember silent days

When hope was planted long before.

There is a time when stones are cast

Across the barren, stubborn ground,

When walls are broken, towers fall,

And grief walks slowly, heavy-crowned.

The dust of ruin fills the air,

The cry of loss is fierce and wild;

Even the strongest voice may break

And weep like some abandoned child.

But there will be another hour

When hands begin to gather stone,

When shattered gates are raised again

And lonely hearts are not alone.

The mortar binds what once was split,

The beams rise steady in the sun;

And from the wreck of former days

A gentler dwelling is begun.

There is a time to tear the cloth

And sit in ashes with the night,

To let the sorrow speak its truth

Without disguise or borrowed light.

For tears are rivers heaven knows,

And grief, though dark, is not denied;

The soul must walk its shadowed path

Where broken hopes and prayers abide.

Yet laughter also finds its hour,

A sudden bloom in winter’s field;

The voice of joy, once faint with doubt,

Returns with music long concealed.

The table rings with grateful sound,

The weary heart grows light again,

And songs arise like morning birds

Across the valleys after rain.

There is a time to hold a friend

As though the world might slip away,

To gather close what love has found

Within the fragile arms of day.

Warm breath against the passing wind,

A quiet vow the heart has known:

That life, though fleeting as the mist,

Was never meant to stand alone.

And there is time to loosen hands,

To let the departing footsteps fade,

To watch the road grow dim with dusk

Where once our dearest hopes were laid.

For even love must learn release

When seasons turn beyond our sight;

The seed must fall into the earth

Before it greets returning light.

Thus all things move through ordered tides

No mortal wisdom fully sees;

The grief of storms, the peace of dawn,

The fall of leaves, the budding trees.

The heart may tremble at the change

That carries both its loss and gain,

Yet time unfolds a patient law

Written in joy and written in pain.

So walk the path that comes to you

With humble trust in what is given:

The tears, the laughter, birth, and rest—

All measured in the courts of heaven.

For every hour beneath the sun

Was placed within the turning sphere,

And every soul shall find its time

To sing, to mourn, to love, and hear.