But They Who Wait

Even youths shall faint and be weary,
and young men shall fall exhausted;
but they who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength;
they shall mount up with wings like eagles;
they shall run and not be weary;
they shall walk and not faint.

-Isaiah 40:30-31

When the Ship Comes In

Oh the time will come up when the wind will stop
And the breeze will cease to be breathing
Like a stillness in the wind 'fore the hurricane begins
The hour that the ship comes in
Oh the seas will split and the ship will hit
And the sand on the shoreline will be shaking
And the tide will sound and the waves will pound
And the morning will be breaking

Oh the fishes will laugh as they swim out of the path
And the seagulls, they'll be smiling
And the rocks on the sand will proudly stand
The hour that the ship comes in
And the words that are used for to get the ship confused
Will not be understood as they're spoken
For the chains of the sea will have busted in the night
And be buried on the bottom of the ocean

Oh a song will lift as the mains'l shifts
And the boat drifts onto the shoreline
And the sun will respect every face on the deck
The hour that the ship comes in
And the sands will roll out a carpet of gold
For your weary toes to be a-touching
And the ship's wise men will remind you once again
That the whole wide world is watching

Oh the foes will rise with the sleep still in their eyes
And they'll jerk from their beds and think they're dreaming
But they'll pinch themselves and squeal and they'll know that it's for real
The hour that the ship comes in
And they'll raise their hands saying we'll meet all your demands
But we'll shout from the bow, your days are numbered
And like Pharaoh's tribe they'll be drowned in the tide
And like Goliath they'll be conquered

-Bob Dylan

Waiting

Right here's beauty like I have never known
And I'm carefully placed here, not some cast-away
But I'm weary and aching for my home
And I'm waiting for my day

-Jason Harrod, "Waiting For My Day"

Sonnet on His Blindness

When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent, which is death to hide,
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest He, returning, chide:
“Doth God exact day labor, light denied?”
I fondly ask; but Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, “God doth not need
Either man’s work, or His own gifts; who best
Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best. His state
Is kingly. Thousands at His bidding speed,
And post o’er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.”

-John Milton