As I walk the worn path I see the marks of Christians stretched far beyond my reaching grasp, but as the finger traces Your cross upon my brow, Your victory shines through me. We are a witness.
     The dearth of home and rest. We are want. We are need. We are bleeding. Our wounds match Yours in a transparent aspect. Unity.
     We connect in a solemn way, our sin and tears unite us. We know You save. Ashes, the feeling of remembrance. So many brothers and sisters in those first trying years. They knew the same struggles, fought the battle, gave You the fear. Penance.
    I cry. Crush my pride, tear down my walls that are built in sin and self pity grip me inside. You were Crucified. You died. You live, for me. But I'm hungry. Prayer.
    Enter this blistered soul, kept captive by my dread of failing. I continue to hold onto my pain to hide my need for You. You are reality. Heavenly song, the union of broken children. Sign of redemption and sinners. The weight is heavy but you have put strength in withered arms. Your love.
    I give my yes, in a moment of sorrowful painful bliss. I do. I am Yours. Hold my heart. I accept Yours. Your cross upon my head.
    Dust and ashes. You spoke the words. You gave me life. Once again barrenness de-robes and steps into the light. You make it new.
    I do not need to hear stories or tales of glories, when the story I live is wrought with Your nailed hands. The hands that appear held back and helpless, the ones that began creating and gave us the first Mass. The ones that truly could break anything that bars the heart or thing of solidity. You are the one unshaken. Your presence.
    "You are dust, and to dust you shall return."  Reminding us of our making with the beauty of Your voice. The song of uplifted repentance and glory.
     I can see the hope in dying, hope in continuing on. My savior, You call to me, helping me take the steps in faith. Remorse and peace mixed in my breath. Unaccustomed things. Metanoia, change of heart. Amen, I do believe.