The Price of Money

5 Mar


The Price of Money
by L. Stewart Marsden

Money has no care of how it was got,
Whether earned or stolen, inherited or not.

It is hard.
It is cold.
It is new.
It is old.

In the hands of the foolish — recklessly bold
In the hands of the wise — untold futures unfold;

It stays but a minute in pocket or bank
till it moves from one till to another
until, from common to swank,
it goes back to the other.

No regard for the rich, certainly none for the poor;
Content to live tucked in niches and nooks
or to bask all the more where the beautiful look to impress one another,
this casual lover brings broad smiles of wine, bread and thee
which will eventually fade
Then it soberly straightens its tie
and brushes its pants
and moves quickly along
to some other place where its seekers have thronged.

Crisp or quite wrinkled
it is sought for itself;
and battles waged for it
bought the furnaces of hell —
for it, after all, is the root of all evil
Well, even the Devil cannot outdo its due.

Ah, Lucre —
Spent, but not tired
Burned, but not singed
this idol of idols will not bow, will not cringe
before anything else —
It gives and it takes all one can hire,
Nothing is banned — no want or desire.

But everything, even money, comes at a price,
And nothing is priced at a price that is higher.

Ecclesiastes 10:19; I Timothy 6:10


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