“For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to weep, a time to laugh; a time to mourn, a time to dance…” ~ Ecclesiastes 3:1, 4
Ashes to ashes, we all fall down.
We are born delicate, by death of Fire, the flames no longer leaping on the hearth, nor spinning in embroidered skirts of smoke to the wild music of a living dance, to the beat of drums and merry hearts.
No, the dance ceases; the laughter is an echo. We repent in rags and bathe in soot for the sheer anticipation of the death of God.
Brand your mark across my forehead, Dying One. Tattoo it here, on mind, on heart, on body: Forty days and forty nights of remembering and mourning. Forty days and forty nights of hunger in body and soul. Forty days and forty nights of judgment by fire and flood. Forty days and forty nights of silence screaming in my ears. Forty days and forty nights is not that much to ask of me except that I’m hungry. I’m hungry, Lord:
for soot, for silence, for sorrow, for salvation.