Creator of the morning moon,
Painter of the cloudy evening sky,
In this season of abundant nighttimes
And shadows that extend for miles
Our hearts are painted with ash.

We wail in the corners of the world
Wondering when the Merry will come with Christmas,
When the sparkles will return,
And when the light will reappear.
The wound is fresh.
It extends beyond the bone
To the depths of the soul.

Why did it just happen
In this brightened season of hope
When plastic joy is glued to every surface
And smiles are permanently affixed to faces?

Why must we face this Christmas
When we’ve just been cheated?
Why must we be reminded
At every meal we would have eaten with him
And when holding the gift we just bought her?

Why is our future crushed
By the current song on the radio
Or the hymn sung at church?

God, we don’t know how we’ll make it through this hour
Let alone candlelight worship,
Christmas morning expected bliss
Or New Year’s countdowns.

So let us find that sacred spot
Where tears flow freely,
Where weeping and gnashing of teeth are welcomed,
And where we can wear sack cloths,
Or flannel clothes
Or sweats
Or his old t-shirt
And spill our souls to you, God.