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The paint on the
wall,
It slowly dries,
There's really no point in us watching,
It does what it's doing,
Without our help,
If we try to dry it, there's blotching.
The pot on the
stove,
It starts to boil,
And all with a very low simmer,
If we stoop to staring,
It doesn't help,
We don't give it heat, not a
glimmer.
Events in our
lives,
They come and go,
But worry will not make them happen,
If we will be patient,
And let them be,
We'll set our thoughts free and not trap
'em.
The paint on the
wall,
The boiling pot,
Whatever will be will be being,
So while we are living,
And taking breath,
Let's leave it to God, never fleeing.
by David Ronald Bruce Pekrul
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