The Garden of Resurrection by E. Temple Thurston

On Sunday it is Cruikshank's custom to rest from his labors in the / garden. The custom is not one of hypocrisy. He does it, not that he / may be seen of others, but, as I fully believe, because there is a / depth of religious sentiment within him, which one would never suspect. / This does not absolutely deter him from those little attentions to / his flowers and his rose trees which no gardener, however religious / his scruples may be, would ever describe as work. That knife with the / handle of horn is for ever within reach in the pocket of his coat -- a / little tangle of bass is always ready to hand should a drooping plant / or an overweighted stem demand it, and with these little accessories / before the fact, he wanders up and down his garden paths, his mind in / such spirit of contentment as I would give my forty years of idleness / to possess.

"It's the number seven I like," he says. "I like the idea of an / omnipotent power moulding a massive world, hammering and chiselling it, / never allowing it a moment of stillness in which to set, keeping it / always moving, always in the making for six mighty ages and then, upon / the seventh, with tired hands, leaving it to its well-earned rest. The / Sabbath in its relation to dogma means very little indeed. It's what / it means in its relation to work that I like. It can't honor God that, / for one day in the week we do nothing. What honors Him is the work we / have done in the six which makes the seventh of necessity a day of / rest."