© Bryce Merkl. All rights reserved.
To ashes, turn the waving palms; To silence, drift the joyous cries; To winter, wheel the budding days; To dust, decay the human bones. Today, on Wednesday, we arise; Together, we deny and pray, Defying these, the somber haunts Of ashes, silence, winter, dust. A cross imposed in oil and ash, Past joys to sorrows now reduced, Those Ashes crosses with new life, Recalling to the fore our death. His silence, kept for forty days, On less than desert bread alone, That Silence in our wordless hearts Now breaks; the Logos flesh become. This winter Wednesday, cold and dark, Beginning long and slow the march From out the shroud of Winter’s curse, Declares the hope of timeless Spring. Our broken flesh and dusty bones That will to Dust one day return Renew themselves beneath the touch Of One who Dust became, for this. We—ashes, silence, winter, dust— This day remember to forget; In sorrow shared, we break the bread; With joyous hearts, we share the cup. Today, on Wednesday, we lament, But in the ashes, we find life. For if we Wednesday understood, Then we would call that Friday good.