Sunday breaks like any other day, except it is Sunday
and the refrain of Holy, holy, holy echoes in the air
like the neon light of a motel proclaiming it’s open
all nite. The fact of Sunday is metaphor enough
to loosen memories, create desires only a word
such as Amen can set free and the flood begins
to hold a new world just as soon as it recedes.
I do not forget the need for the crooked to know
the straight and how the two work together.
The good that comes from the bad,
the bad that comes from the good –
this, too, is echoed in Holy, holy, holy.
The lustful nature of the Sabbath is to embrace
everything. Refuse nothing, except for sacrifices
that have cost nothing, the heart and soul have
not prepared. I remember hymns and sermons
whose subtexts were exactly that. The good
Samaritan helping the wounded, the one rejected,
the only one to lend a helping hand. It is Sunday
and the past weaves into the present that which lasts.
-Byron Hoot
