There are days that will not let go.
They drag at you like a bramble.
Whether with the weariness of worry,
or of sickness, or decay,
they etch themselves inside the bones,
an internal calendar of dismay.
They make mockery, singing off-key:
This is the day that the Lord has made …
This is the day that the Lord has made,
and in the beginning each was given its bounds:
there was evening, and there was morning,
none allowed to stay for ever.
This is the day, fleeting like a breath,
a long-drawn sigh, mortal like us;
may we find compassion for its brevity,
love it like an enemy, pray for it as a persecutor.
This is the day that the Lord has made.
May God give it only the measure that it deserves.