Six days of work are spent
to make a Sunday quiet
that Sabbath may return.
It comes in unconcern;
we cannot earn or buy it.
Suppose rest is not sent
or comes and goes unknown,
the light, unseen, unshown.
Suppose the day begins
in wrath at circumstance,
or anger at one’s friends
in vain self-innocence
false to the very light,
breaking the sun in half,
or anger at oneself
whose controverting will
would have the sun stand still.
The world is lost in loss
of patience; the old curse
returns, and is made worse
as newly justified.
In hopeless fret and fuss,
in rage at worldly plight
creation is defied,
all order is unpropped.
All light and singing stopped.
–Wendell Berry, Sabbaths, “V”, p. 14
