Let All Things Pass Away

I've been thinking a lot today about loss and the impermanence of things.  I'll grant you, it's not the most cheerful of things to think about, but nonetheless, it's been on my mind.   

A friend just lost his mom, suddenly and without warning.  Another friend spoke to me about a beloved granddaughter who took her life.  I've been struck today by thoughts of my mom, who passed seven years ago, and whom I miss every day.  I grieve the loss of dreams I had that dissipated and faded away.  

And yet, there is such beauty in the world, and so much goodness, all of which ebb and flow in an endless cycle of dying and rising.  The impermanence of things makes me realize the precious nature of life in all of its fragility.  

This is a hard thing to embrace, though.  

We hold so tightly to what cannot stay. Dreams shift, loved ones leave us too soon, seasons close before we’re ready. Grief can convince us that impermanence is an enemy—proof that nothing is secure and everything is slipping. 

Yet, what if impermanence is not a betrayal but an invitation? What if its ache is the doorway to wonder, urgency, tenderness, and praise?

W.B. Yeats gestures toward this paradox in lines that mingle blood, beauty, and transience:

"From man's blood-sodden heart are sprung
Those branches of the night and day
Where the gaudy moon is hung.
What's the meaning of all song?
"Let all things pass away."

Yeats begins with the “blood-sodden heart”—human life marked by suffering, love, striving. Out of that heart grow “branches of the night and day,” the passing sweep of time itself. Even the “gaudy moon,” radiant and seemingly eternal, is hung for a while upon these branches. 

Art—“all song”—searches for meaning in this fragile theater and answers not with clinging but release: Let all things pass away. The beauty was never meant to be possessed; it was always meant to be received, celebrated, and surrendered.

Scripture harmonizes with this wisdom. Paul writes that “what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal” (2 Corinthians 4:18). We do not deny loss; we grieve it. Yet we grieve as people who hope, because God meets us in what fades and carries us toward what does not. Psalm 90 pleads, “Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.” Numbering our days doesn’t shrink life—it deepens it. Finite time becomes holy time.

So how do we live this? We bless what we cannot keep. We say “thank You” for ordinary mornings, for friendships that change shape, for work that lasts a season, for laughter that echoes and is gone. We tell our stories while we can. We forgive quickly. We love extravagantly. We plant trees we may never sit beneath.

Take courage: even the hard things you face now are impermanent. Anxiety, injustice, illness, conflict—none gets the final word. In Christ, resurrection is always the hidden headline. One day, every sorrow will pass away, and what remains will be love.

Embrace your own impermanence, not in dread but in freedom. Live fully. Notice beauty. Spend your life on what matters. And when loss comes—as it will—let it sharpen your joy and stretch your hope toward the God who holds all our passing days in everlasting hands.

Today's Prayer: 

Eternal God, teach us to cherish the gift of each moment, knowing that all things in this life are passing shadows compared to Your everlasting light. When we face loss and grief, remind us that even our pain is temporary, and that You hold every tear and every heartbeat in Your hands. Fill our hearts with gratitude for the beauty and wonder of life, and give us courage to live fully, love deeply, and trust that Your eternal promises will never fade. In Jesus’ name, Amen.