There is a beauty in sickness
Feel mortality’s Approaching grasp
Locked away in a room alone
Time now slows down, Discontent rest
All our labors, they’re placed on hold
Unproductive, Yet time unfolds
World continues spinning along
Society’s fine, Continuing on
This day what would we be doing
Diligent work, Constant moving
This perpetual busyness
Never ending,
Behold The fool
Waiting to rest, till tasting death

I wrote this poem a few weeks ago while in quarantine, sick with Covid. I was thinking about all the times I have been so busy working, that the only days I rested were days that I was simply too sick to do anything else. Certainly God designed us for work and purpose, but those ingredients to who we are must be framed by rest and relationship. When we seek work and purpose outside of rest and relationship, we become slaves to our own doing.

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