We start on the ninth Sunday before Christmas and build solidly towards today, and every year without fail when today arrives I wake up broken and have to pull myself together to face the day.
Sometimes (not this year, I'm at Eastercon), I stay up all of Thursday night watching with Him. I don't know whether that helps me or not.
These lines(not mine), or similar words from other writers, explain part of it.
His dying crimson, like a robe
Spreads o'er his body on the tree;
Then am I dead to all the globe,
And all the globe is dead to me.
See, from His head, His hands, His feet,
Sorrow and Love flow mingled down;
Did e'er such and sorrow meet
Or thorns compose so rich a crown?
Now I must pull myself together and go to breakfast.
In other news, sass you that hoopy Archbishop of Canterbury? There's a frood who really knows where his towel is.