a sabbath poem

on the sixth day,
the mad farmer built a house.
he built his house quietly, on quiet land.
the paperwork called the land his, but he knew it was not.

on the seventh day,

he ate,
trusting that by hard work, by sun, rain, and rhythm, and
by the grace of God his garden would grow.

he loved,
thanking God for family and friendship young and old,
for sun and moon, music, breath and sex and sight,
all gifts from the divine.

he slept,
resting in his rest,
the foremost act of trust,
the perfect, primal, bravest act of worship known to men
(not all men, only a few).

on the eighth day,
the mad farmer returned to his work
and found all as it was
and he knew the sweetness,
without bitterness,
the goodness of the seventh day.


This poem was first shared on my friend AJ Zimmermann’s blog, where he writes on spiritual formation and calling discernment. 

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