Douglas Spencer (dougs) wrote,
Douglas Spencer
dougs

Such Love and Sorrow

Every year, on this day, I wake up feeling sick.
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.
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