Holy Saturday

A day without purpose or liturgy,
vast in its cruel, silent emptiness.
Bereft, gutted, regrettable.

A day to sit with myself,
my failures, my sorrows,
wrap them around me like a shawl.

A day to sit with death,
amid life’s flock of losses,
feeding the pigeons of grief at my feet.

A day to sit with the world
and its shambles,
its unfailing choice to ruin itself.

Let the depth of the day deepen,
the sea of sorrow swell downward,
the dark deeps complete and useless.

Everything empties out.
Even grief and guilt are hollow.
Even the beating heart has nothing to say.

In the insistent blank
let there be no possibility, none:
an empty canvas for God.

Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
Listen to the audio recording:

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