The Garment of Sunday

Today, my soul is laid low in silence. Today my heart senses the grief, the sorrow that is upon us all. My soul is agonizing over the dirty stains that cover it and damage it. I see the cloak of shame covering my soul, so blemished no one would want to touch it or come near it. I look out over the world and there is a sea of souls, all bowed low in shame, covered in those dirty cloaks... 

So very dirty. 

But my soul anticipates the garment of Sunday. For on Sunday, two nail scarred hands will reach down, and with a cry of passion that will be heard throughout all eternity,

those hands will rip that dirty cloak off of my soul... 

Then, my soul will rise up, as that weight is lifted. And then...

A white garment - a pure, unblemished garment - will be placed over the shoulders of my soul. And my soul will draw a deep, cleansing breath of freedom...

of salvation. 

Today, my soul is dark, lonely, afraid and frail. Today, my soul is a barren wasteland, dry, thirsty...

But the garment of Sunday is coming. 

It's coming... 

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