The threshold of rest

​The shadows stretch their weary arms, Across the rush of six days' toil, To quiet all the world’s alarms, And calm the tilled and turned-up soil. The hammer rests, the needle stays, As commerce fades into the gray, To welcome in the Queen of Days, And sweep the dust of care away. ​In kitchens warm with rising bread, The silver shines in candlelight, While ancient, holy words are said, To bridge the hollow of the night. A gentle hush begins to rise, From hearth to heart, from street to sky, As work with all its heavy ties, Is laid aside to softly die. ​The table set, the soul prepared, To taste the peace the heavens lend, In every meal and moment shared, Where time and timeless wonders blend. The gates of spirit open wide, The week is done, its burdens cease, As we step through the evening tide, Into the dwelling place of peace.