In peace I will both lay myself down and sleep,
for you, the LORD alone, make me live in safety.
-Psalm 4, WEBBE

When you get tired from your trials, my friend, I pray you may find a way to rest, I pray you do not give up.

Don’t think so far ahead. Don’t fret!

Be where you are, stay where you need to be. Think only of your troubles today.

For there is a way with things that we cannot control. And there is a way with things that make them turn out well in the end. Though we may not know how. Though we may not know when.

So when you get tired from your trials, my friend, I pray you may find time to rest, I pray that you don’t just quit.

God has a way to make things better in the end. And for now all you need is to rest and to trust Him, my friend.

“Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass under trees on a summer’s day, listening to the murmur of the water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is by no means a waste of time.” – John Lubbock, The Use Of Life

The Day is Done

The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me
That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life’s endless toil and endeavor;
And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.
– Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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