Is it always this bad?
This: my heart.
Does the speed of life, the constant movement, prevent me from seeing, with open eyes, the wretchedness which this Holy Week — the Giant Pause — now lays bare?
A look. A word. A thought — o! the thoughts! — betrays my lack for what it is.
And slowly, surely, I am laid low.
I’m stirring the onions, breathing deeply, wondering at my sadness of soul. (My mind is slow to catch onto the truth which my heart instantly grasps.)
And I think I need the Cross. I find words that will say what I need to hear, need to confess, need to wash over me.
Days of struggling, of being disappointed with self, of grasping for love and truth and righteousness — this exhaustion falls away as I weep.
Here, in my kitchen, with my onions and baby monitor, I cry to borrow language — language that will thank this Dearest Friend.
My heart. My wretchedness. My empty attempts at perfection. My soul’s anguish. They are rags; I accept Your righteousness.
o sacred head
O sacred Head, now wounded,
with grief and shame weighed down,
now scornfully surrounded
with thorns, thine only crown:
how pale thou art with anguish,
with sore abuse and scorn!
How does that visage languish
which once was bright as morn!
What thou, my Lord, has suffered
was all for sinners’ gain;
mine, mine was the transgression,
but thine the deadly pain.
Lo, here I fall, my Savior!
‘Tis I deserve thy place;
look on me with thy favor,
vouchsafe to me thy grace.
What language shall I borrow
to thank thee, dearest friend,
for this thy dying sorrow,
thy pity without end?
O make me thine forever;
and should I fainting be,
Lord, let me never, never
outlive my love for thee.