“. . . the righteous shall sit down in his kingdom, to go no more out . . .”

Friday afternoon, the work is never getting done.

It won’t be filed away until the setting of the sun.

We huff and puff and whistle like a steam pot on the range;

Running round in circles like a dog who has the mange.

And then the weekend offers very little requiescence;

We mow the lawn and go to Church, acquiring senescence.

There’s shopping and there’s yoga; then to dentist we must go.

Is there nothing that can stop this long nomadic show?

But snatch a moment any way that you can manage, friend --

To remember that this turmoil really has an end.

Soon or late we wipe our feet and enter Father’s home;

There rejoicing in His love, and never more to roam.

You and I will sit together at Jehovah’s feet,

And listen to the cosmos singing low and singing sweet.