We do not work at earthly things.
And the things of every day of the week
Must finally come together into one.
And it is about time.
For it is the Sabbath of the earth.
And our worship and our rest
Must mingle with the things we do for labor.
And labor too must claim the day of rest.
And though there be but few who now enlist,
Know that this work, this rest, will fill the earth.
And in time, the houses of worship
Will go vacant.
They will grow deathly still with lack of use.
And the sacred silence of abandoned things
Will claim them for the owls
And for things that creep and crawl in the night.
For we will worship at the grinding wheel
And we will labor in the service of the souls of men
In such a myriad of ways
That we will not be able to tell the difference
Between the religious and the secular.
For so it is with all those
Who serve the sacred wind that blows where it pleases.
They cannot tell from whence it came or where it goes.
And eventually, they lose track of the days of the week.
They abandon their calendars,
And forget to count their years.
And when they do, they grow both old and young.
And time, for them, is done away,
And all things are made new.