A Poem

Sabbath

The mind that comes to rest is tended
In ways that it cannot intend:
Is borne, preserved, and comprehended
By what it cannot comprehend.

Your Sabbath, Lord, thus keeps us by
Your will, not ours. And it is fit
Our only choice should be to die
Into that rest, or out of it.

Wendell Berry

Berry, Wendell. A Timbered Choir (Washington, D.C.: Counterpoint, 1998), p.7.

As quoted in Christ Plays In Ten Thousand Places by Eugene Peterson

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