No ashes smudged my brow,
no fellow pilgrims gathered 'round,
no bread was pressed into my hand,
there was no wine for parchéd tongue
no taste of Christ's body or His blood
Instead, white flakes upon my crown
Ash-like, they blanketed the ground,
My empty home was filled
with candle glow and a beating heart
a chamber of blood for the body of Christ
Empty space became hallowed
my knees pressed in, head bowed;
Desolate darkness filled with little flames,
the silent void invaded by a chant
breaking forth from the Body of Christ
In this season of sadness bright
the valleys become hollows to catch light,
the negatives show up outlined clear—
Our Lent has been a year-long affair
sustained with only the Body of Christ
We who see the edges of dark
find the contrast stark
between Advent's rising Sun and its setting,
where we befriend lament and night,
swallowing deep the body of Christ
'No ashes' leaves an empty space
where I learn to receive a crown of grace
for expectations unmet and things lost—
And a single heart is not alone
when it is part of the Body of Christ
Hollowed hands are a channel of
opportunity to be offered in love,
to be raised in repentance,
and lifted in worship, open to be
the physical signs of Christ's body. . .
