I’m not ready to wash the ashes from my forehead. Two sooty smudges form the shape of a cross; the mark of a savior’s grace upon me.
In this holy place between my living, breathing, carnal existence and my mortality;
On this sacred groubd between my iniquity, shame, grief, guilt; and merciful pardon from all of these;
At this burning bush of Sunday palms, before this altar between human and holy;
I am held…
In a wonderful savior’s love,
In a merciful God’s forgiveness,
In an ashen grace of redemtion and freedom.
A cross from fronds and dust reminds me that, though broken by sin, I am made whole by the love of Christ.
This ashen grace is
Word to being
Dust to dust
And everything in between.