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Can You Love Me On A Saturday?

I know you can love me on a Friday--
when I'm dying
and you need to get
one last superlative out
before I slip away.

I know you show your love through grief,
with flowers at my feet,
as you mourn my coming absence
from your life--
as you think about
all the ways I've served you
that will be no longer.

(They say your foes return as friends
when what they thought would kill you
fails.)

I know you can love me on a Sunday--
when I've resurrected,
returning as something
more beautiful than before.

I know you can love me then--
when there is a blessed assurance,
a foretaste of glory divine.

But can you love me on a Saturday?

Can you love me in the sunken place?

Can you love me in between 
the all-to-familiar crucifixion and
the all-to-praised resurrection?

Could you love me when 
the flowers at my decomposing feet
have died--
when Sunday hasn't come--
when Sunday never comes?

Could you love me then?--
After the fall and before the rise?
After the light within has died,
Before the glow up of my snap-back?

How 'bout that?



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