We speak of Holy Week, and a coal train flies by with empty
cars returning to be refilled and sent off once again.
We speak of Holy Week, and we pause with a nod or a wince,
with an attempt to say more than just words printed on a page.
We speak of Holy Week, and we slowly sigh, taking pause to
refocus on days beyond weariness.
We speak of Holy Week, and our arms are filled with commentaries
and word studies, which carry the potential to separate us from the very thing
of it.
We speak of Holy Week, and trust a sleeping world hears and acknowledges
the sacrifice.
We speak of Holy Week, and find a voice, our voice, alone in
the wilderness.
We speak of Holy Week, and the newness of life enters,
uninvited, unfocused, unsought; the noise finds a target.
We speak of Holy Week, God bless all those who speak; of
Holy Week.
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