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God of the sticks, the dry grounds, the damp tears, and the gritty ashes:
Oh how we yearn for the spring to arrive.
The days of the sweet mild breezes carrying the scents of your creation.
The boldness of the sunrise which will awaken our souls
Instead of the chilly winds swirling below the thick cloud cover.

But for now, God, we sit under the tree full of twigs and surrounded by ashes.
We sit with the grief that comes from unbearable losses.
We settle knowing that today may not go well, that tomorrow is not guaranteed-
Yet hope still illuminates the sky in the distance.

So we live with that hope:
The hope that the phoenix will rise from the ashes
And Christ will rise from the tomb.
We live with the hope that the twigs on the trees
Will bear leaves when the time is right.
We know that after the longest nights of our lives
That the sun will rise again,
And that you, Holy Comforter,
Will follow us to the depths of Sheol if we flee.

Even when hardships encroach our space
And afflictions invade our bodies,
The hope found in the realm of God-
The dirt-filled, ash smeared
Tear-damp realm of God
Is still hope.
This is the hope that drives away despair,
That warms our hearts,
That give us moments of cheer.
And in that we offer God our praise.