In the evening, the wild wideness of light's colors casts forth a last decree of the sun's beauty. Dark silhouettes of leafless trees leave hearts hungry for something they had missed when the trees stood in lights fullness. The dying light calls forth the worshipping side of man, and we wake up to the light and call after its going, aching for it to stay. We remember its true beauty just as we remember the true beauty of the elder who we love when we see them withered and dying, their life's past glory burning in our hearts in a way we had never known.
I stood in his light ungratefully. I saw him and knew him, saw him and did not esteem him. I did not praise nor beg nor ask nor listen, I went on with life as life was to be on with. But now I see him pass, and my heart cries out to him and praises the beauty I had forgotten. His last light casts itself on those around me leaving only the shapes of things previously known in full. These I knew, these true and beautiful ones I knew but never loved. All the shades of his light were known before, but undiluted I had never honored nor recalled them. The dying, suffering light sets, and my heart breaks and waits. Then I remember:
He has bound himself to his cross. And by his cross he binds himself to us like the sun has tethered itself to the earth. He will arise, and I will see his face and know his grace once more.
May Your dying and reviving always be in our hearts. May Your dawning and evening meet us new every day renewing our remembrance of who You are and what You have done.
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