In Your Hands I Commit My Art Poem by Hannington Mumo

I know not what time remains
Before Your beloved son returns;
It could be eons upon eons to come,
Or before I compose this amateur rhyme;
And since I never can know the adventures of time,
In Your hands I commit my art.

Soon it's coming the appointed day,
For this versifier to move the ancestors' way;
This shall be a day of mourning great;
But mine is a prayer before it be too late:
That there will be found a steadfast mouth
To recite this meek lines of heavenly troth;
To all those who shall come together then
To lament the departure of a gifted pen.

If time should roll into centuries after I'm gone,
When they mingle with the earth flesh and bone;
And all is forgotten of this mortal frame;
When they wither the vanities of name and fame,
Father, from You I pray this part:
Let no moth destroy my art.

I cannot be sure what fancies shall grace the sky,
When the moon and the sun shall dim and trumpets cry;
But if be there a need for some mellifluous rhyme,
Then let the angelic orchestras this one try!