Summons
Desist, my soul, the dirt you scratch and pry is cracked and beat to dryness with the dust. The ground is burst: your fields and soil will lie succumbed: to glut, and vanity, and lust. Discard the bruised old garment, uniform of sweat and soot. Another shirt is cleaned, prepared for you, its pattern cruciform — another calls; His lands are treed and green. You labour and are heavy-laden: come, excise these other contracts from your slate. You are not pressed beneath the Master’s thumb; He pays His workers, early and the late. The Lord of Harvests’ Son calls you released: who let Him wash them, share His wedding feast.
