It is a puzzling irony of this world—
Filled with the various human passions—
That even the holiest of them
Should ever have to be set aside
For the mundane necessities of life.
Call it a puzzle of our existence,
Or if you’re inclined to think that way,
Call it a flaw in the system—
Either by virtue of bad use
Or of bad design.
But whatever its cause,
It is the truth of our situation.
And I wonder whether
It will still be true
For us in heaven,
For I have read that
Some angels do need sleep.
