poetry for liz

One morning during solitude time we were given this thought to contemplate: He makes everything beautiful in His time (from Ecclesiastes). This is what I wrote:
He makes everything beautiful in His time,
But time has mostly been my enemy
And I the victim of its freak thievish ways.
Still vacant,
Still longing.
Hope deferred makes the heart grow sick.

And if by beauty you mean
This debilitating illness
Stretching over the days of my life,
Then I’ve got more beauty than most.
In fact, mine is a criminal beauty
Because it strains against rubble layers of
Eroded ground and piled leaves,
And reaches, breaking through
For sunlit blue and sparkling green-
Life in a time where it does not belong,
Hope when all hope is lost.

And if by time you mean
A thousand years as just one day,
Then this time is not my own.
It is His slow meandering
Through centuries and millennia
And my vapored life.
And I am mixed up in a
Strange crime of scandalous beauty
And unmeasured time-
Risking it all
Because even if beauty is terrible,
And even if time cannot be contained,
It is still my hope-
If by hope you mean
Life in a time where it does not belong,
Hope when all hope is lost.