A Hint of Sabbath on Friday

With Sabbath we discover what the rest of the days are for

Fridays are for fun, we barely know,
for time runs on, no punctuation, less meaning;
like water in a pitcher running out, same and going,
never stopping, no rhythm, no rhyme.
Stopping on a Friday is good, just for the stopping.
But why?

The departed Frenchmen remade time, or thought to;
as if commodity to be shaped, amorphous weeks, no nature.
Of course, "Why weeks?" one asked, with normal daring 
of human adventure. "What's always been is none the better for that,
nor more true."

Or as the Aussie said, of note: "The tenacity of ideas speaks
nothing to their worthiness." Though with the noted Brit I say but nay, 
the epochal customs are "democracy of the dead," 
the spoken silence that governs our every thought and action.

We have no thoughts of our own nor can we re-make the world.
And time -- the very rhythm of life -- is at home in that world.
And so should we be, allowing a break, if only at home, if only in our soul,
if only once a week.

To think, the gift of Sabbath, if offered and received, makes one seventh of a life
for leisure, for knowing what matters most, for play, for family, for a break.
With Sabbath we discover what the rest of the days are for, 
and we know time does not run on forever, nor does it own us.
Rather, on Sabbath, we learn to own it; and that is the best gift of all.

[Frenchmen: in their revolution they tried to reconstruct the week; 

Aussie: Tim Minchin's song, White Wine in the Sun (paraphrased);

Brit: the inimitable GKC]