This week I've been very aware that my own restless choices have been keeping me from the best
uses of the time given me. I've started pushing through discomfort and fatigue again, even though I know that's a recipe for disaster for me. This old poem came to mind and spoke to me, so perhaps someone else needs it, too. It derives from Luke 10:38-42.
Martha, Martha
Sit still, My child; no need for haste;
Still, at My feet, shall be thy place.
Thy strength lies in that quietness;
My daughter, return to thy rest.
Through rest, not toil, the victory’s won;
Only through Me, thy work is done.
Come, weary one, and know thy best:
To lean thy head on Abba’s breast.
~crm, 2000 or so