Here we are on the edge of Holy Week. The parade is over; wrappers and tattered banners still blow down the empty streets. Some have stuck their palm fronds in the planters round the lamp posts. Some have forgotten their coats and there is a tiny sneaker on the curb. The air has caught silence like the vibrations of a soundless bell. Something is upon us. We are called to make space, a home in us, which becomes, as this One is, for the world.
Under all our attempts at triumph
You have found us Love.
Ridden through our small glories
On a thick-haunched colt
In our particulars
Our skin, our bone
Our fading memories, our sprung hopes
You have come out to find us.