A poem for Monday and the week ahead, by Ben Witherington III.
Weary, worn, welts on hand
Work has whittled down the man
To the bare necessities
Of what he is, and what he’ll be
Was this then his destiny?
Defined, refined by what we do,
The toilsome tasks are never through
Thorn and thistle, dirt and dust
Sweeping clean, removing rust
All to earn his upper crust?
Sweat of brow, and carried weight
Rose too early, slept too late
Slaving, striving dawn to dusk
‘Til the shell is barely husk
Staunch the stench with smell of musk?
But work is not the curse or cure
By which we’re healed, or will endure
It will not save us in the end,
It is no foe, but rather friend
But while it molds us will we mend?
Task Master making all things new
Who makes the most of what we do
Let our work an offering be
A timely gift from those set free
From earning our eternity.
When work is mission on the move
By those whose efforts serve to prove
That nothing’s wasted in God’s hands
When we respond to his commands
Then we shall hear him say, “Well done”
To those who worked under the Son.