Ever Ancient, Ever New

These days,
these last three,
they mark my whole year.
I wait for you,
and you come,
with bread and wine,
wood and nails,
descending and rising.

These days have always been good.

I thought for sure, this time,
they would be marked with a lot more Good Friday
than Easter Sunday.
But you, you, you
know how my little heart is so incapable of survival,
that I these three days are the most important of my year,
and they never get old.

You know how badly I need this Easter Sunday.

So I will
receive you,
bleed with you,
rise with you.