He leans against a wall and allows his eyes to rest:
After three long decades' pacing through the dust,
His will has lost its way.
A weightless anchor drags him, sags about his shoulders;
It forces him to stoop when he's squinting at The shadows.
''Who goes there?'' he inquires of the wind shuffling leaves.
''Come out,'' he calls to the unanswering darkness.
And so alone he rests.
Who will wake him? He is our Watchman.
Long have we slumbered under his faithful eye;
Will tonight be the end of all our rest?
Will the unseen angel pierce the darkness, unseen, unheard,
unannounced by the one on whom our safety hinged?
In the morning will we rise, firstborns dead, to find our Watchman sleeping?
Wake, wake! The hours dully drug, but graciously so.
Do not allow their stillness to erode our trust in you;
For what other shepherd have we? We who dream our sorrowful dreams, adrift on your raft in this valley of tears?
If not you, then who will keep the wolves of Hell at bay?
This is your task: to watch, to endlessly watch,
And in so doing to keep the watched-for waiting, hungrily at bay.
May your eyes never close and your horn never blow.
This is not to wish purposelessness upon you, but to pray that your purpose be renewed;
The rock sits not of its own accord, but His.
Arise, o Lazarus, or perish the world.
Sent from my phone; please excuse brevity and typos.