Lorica

We are taken up the mountain just after the great confession — You are the Christ — and just before the great scandal — You will suffer and die. The light of His glory is revealed not apart from the cross, but in its shadow, as if to say: this is who He is, even when you cannot understand what comes next. We stand with them in that dissonance — drawn to the radiance, yet recoiling from the cost. Still, the vision is given as strength, not explanation. It is enough to know Him, even when the road descends into suffering. The memory of glory becomes a quiet fire we carry into the valley. And so we are told not merely to admire, but to listen — to hear Him when He speaks of the cross as the only road to life, when He asks us to lose what we cannot keep. The promise is not that we will understand, but that we will be transformed.

We follow Him into the wilderness — not as observers, but as those being led into the same quiet battle. Weakness is not an accident here, but a setting: a place where the truth can be revealed. The tempter comes not with chaos, but with a logic that feels almost reasonable — take control, prove your worth, secure your place. And yet, each offer is a distortion of what it means to be whole.  He refuses them all. Not because He lacks power, but because He will not define Himself by it. Hunger does not define Him. Approval does not define Him. Dominion does not define Him. He lives instead by the word of the Father — trusting, receiving, remaining. And in doing so, He shows us that our worth is not something we construct or defend, but something already given, already held in God.  So we fast, not to become less, but to see more clearly. To loosen our grip on what cannot satisfy, and to remember the quiet truth beneath it all: that we belong to God, and it is from Him alone that our life is sustained.

We begin with ashes — a sign as old as repentance itself. They mark the truth of what we bring: weakness, sin, mortality, and a heart in need of turning. Yet these outward signs mean nothing if the heart remains proud. The fast we enter is meant to be quiet, sincere, and interior — a realignment of the whole person toward God, not merely a display of discipline.  Christ does not tell us to abandon treasure. He tells us to seek it with all our strength — but to seek the treasure that cannot perish. Every act of love, holiness, mercy, and trust becomes a storehouse in heaven, carried beyond the grave. The season of Lent simply invites a strange exchange: we give God our sin, our distrust, our small sacrifices — and He offers us a kingdom.  It is, in the end, a question of trust. The enemy taught us to doubt God’s goodness, yet the Psalms remind us who He truly is — the one who stills the sea, feeds the valleys, and raises the poor from the dust. Lent begins with ashes, but only because God intends to fill empty hands with something far greater.

We stand at the edge of Lent and hear a warning carried on both Gospel and Epistle: do not presume. The vineyard stretches from Adam to Christ, from dawn to the eleventh hour, and those who labored longest are not guaranteed the prize. Envy felled angels. Presumption cut down a chosen people. The last may be first — and the first, last. We who have been grafted in must not grow comfortable. Our fathers passed through the sea, ate spiritual food, drank from the Rock — and that Rock was Christ. They had Him, truly. Yet many fell in the wilderness. Baptism is not immunity. Eucharist is not entitlement. The race must be run; the body disciplined; the lamp kept filled. Two thousand years is a long time to live in Babylon. It is long enough to mistake exile for home, to build our stone houses and forget the fire that will test every work. But Christ is not distant. Through anamnesis He is as present now as He was in the cloud and the sea. There is no excuse for cold love. Only one thing will endure the burning: love for God and neighbor, made visible in holiness and good works. All else will pass. Are we still running — or have we begun to settle?

A wedding in a small Galilean village — a boy, a girl, the turning of water into wine — becomes the first sign of a deeper unveiling. In this sign we glimpse not only divine power, but divine memory: the world as it was meant to be, transparent with God. The miracle points to more than the wine, more than love — it draws us into the luminous chain of signs that reach toward the one thing that is no sign at all. To live in this world rightly is to see through — not to escape creation, but to receive it as a sacrament. Even the ordinary (tea, trees, toil, touch) becomes an enchanted ladder. Anamnesis is the name for this seeing — this remembrance that does not only look back, but forward too, into the feast to come, where all love finds its source. We are not asked to invent this vision, only to recover it. The miracle has already begun.

How can we be so bold — to call this massacre a feast? To crown the slain children of Bethlehem with palms and praise? And yet the Church dares. Because the Cross has transfigured all suffering — even this. The swords that fell upon them are now their toys; the blood they shed is their baptism. What Herod meant for evil, God received as an offering. These little ones, the Church’s first blossoms, were matured not by years but by innocence. Their deaths recall Egypt and exile, Rachel’s weeping and Mary’s sorrow — but also the promise: they shall return. They shall come back from the land of the enemy. This is how we dare to rejoice. Because Christ is born. Because death is now the servant of glory. Because no cruelty can touch what is held by Love.

On this feast of the Nativity, we see the eternal Word become flesh — and with Him, the meaning of all things made visible. The Christ child, born of Mary, is not only the Redeemer, but the very structure and center of all creation. In Him all things hold together; without Him, nothing can be known, or beautiful, or whole. And yet this mystery, so vast and cosmic, is made intimate through His birth. The font becomes a womb, the womb becomes a tomb, and in each — a beginning. In Him, we are born again, not from Adam, but into the new race of the redeemed. The stain is blotted out. Mortality is overcome. Though shadows still linger — the Innocents, the flight, the cross to come — joy remains unshaken. In the light of His coming, every sorrow is recast. Let us be glad. There is no proper place for sadness when we keep the birthday of the Life that has overcome death.

The question echoes — from the mouths of priests, from Pilate, from us. Who are you? The answer is not always spoken, and rarely heard by those who will not first repent. John the Baptist stands at the threshold, wild and holy, pointing not to himself but to the One already among us, unrecognized. The light has come, but the darkness does not comprehend. Recognition requires purification. Illumination follows repentance. Not all darkness is sin — some is mystery, some is trial — but sin blinds. The heart must be made clean to see what is already here: the Christ, in the breaking of bread, in the midst of our lives, in every sorrow and grace. He has given himself to us fully. The only question is whether we will turn again, and let him be born in us — again, and again, and now. Repentance is not one of many ways. It is the only door. Let us walk through.

John is in prison. Christ is healing the blind, the deaf, even the dead. But when John sends to ask, “Are you the one who is to come?” — Jesus does not answer. He says only: “Tell him what you see. Blessed is he who is not offended in me.” This is not doubt. It is Gethsemane. We are meant to see in John not only the forerunner of Christ’s ministry, but the forerunner in His suffering. He walks every step before the Lord — even into death, even into hell. His question is not confusion, but consummation. He is living the answer with his life. So we ask again: do we know what we already know? Can we trust Him, even when the heavens are silent? Even when the cup is not taken away?

We stand again at the turning of the circle — where the liturgical year ends, and begins anew. Not with sentiment, not with celebration, but with a summons. The old year closed with a warning: the end will come, and all will be judged. And the new year opens with the same cry. This, we are told, is not redundancy — but mercy. The Church does not shy away from final things. She begins her year not with nativity but with apocalypse, calling us not to despair but to readiness. Repentance is not merely sorrow, but preparation. Wakefulness is not anxiety, but faith. We are not meant to drift. We are meant to walk in the light, clear-eyed, prepared. And yet — beneath the sternness, there is joy. For the judgment of Christ is also our redemption. And to live Advent fully is to become capable of joy — the kind that does not flinch from the truth, but finds in it the way home.

There is no such thing as a solitary salvation. St. Paul says, “Imitate me,” not in pride, but in witness — for he himself is imitating Christ, and calls us to do the same, not alone, but together. The Church is not a scattered people with private beliefs. It is a body, moving as one, conformed together in love. This means setting aside the constant itch of opinion, trading cleverness for obedience, and joining the life of Christ already at work in our midst. Salvation is not received in isolation — it is revealed in our life together. The more we insist on being our own, the more we estrange ourselves from the joy of being His. We are not drawn upward by ideas alone, but by love made visible in the lives around us — a people made one not by preference, but by peace. Each of us, all of us, turning as one toward the Shepherd’s voice.

How important is forgiveness in the Christian life? Christ tells us not with answers but with the shape of a story — a man forgiven much, who then refuses mercy to another. We are left to reckon with the “as” of the Lord’s Prayer: forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. What we give, we receive. What we withhold, binds us. This is not a lesson in sentiment, but a call to conversion — from anger to intercession, from resentment to blessing. Even as we wrestle with pain and memory, we are given power: not merely to refrain from hate, but to seek our brother’s good. Forgiveness is not a boundary; it is the ground on which we stand if we wish to be forgiven ourselves. The ember of anger may burn unseen, but left unchecked, it razes the soul. Christ does not flinch from saying so. And still — even still — He offers us the path back.

From the garden to the throne, the story is one of kingship — of rule offered, lost, and restored. We begin with Adam, shaped in the image of the Christ who was to come, a king in a walled garden who failed to defend his realm. We end with the white horse and the Rider, flame-eyed and crowned, who comes not only to protect but to reclaim. The battle is not metaphor. There is an enemy, and Christ our King enters the fray not with fear, but with justice and mercy. In His Annunciation, His Ascension, His ministry, and even His trial, the question echoes: are You a king? And He answers not with denial, but with destiny — for this cause I came into the world. He makes of us a kingdom of priests. He lifts us into His victory. The crown He wears is not taken but given — and now He reigns, not afar, but near. His kingdom has no end. And we? We are already within it.

At the heart of the Mass — the center of all things — is thanksgiving. Eucharist. We were made for this: to give thanks, to praise the God who gives Himself to us in grace, in glory, in utterance and knowledge and gift. In Christ, by the Spirit, we are not just blessed — we are made partakers of the divine. St. Paul calls us to be confirmed in this grace, established and unwavering. Not merely recipients of a gift, but those who carry it forward — blameless, enduring, waiting for the coming of Christ. This is what it means to offer a sacrifice of praise: not words alone, but a life rooted in gratitude, resolute in the storm, joyfully alive in Him. It is not enough to be enriched — we must abide. Will we remain in Him?

The commandment is clear: love God with all your heart, soul, and mind. But in this moment, it becomes clear that the experts in the law — the very ones who tested Christ — have never kept it. They know the letter, but not the lawgiver. They quote the prophets, but cannot see the one of whom they speak. The truth stands before them with breath and flesh, and they call him a devil. We are warned: theology without love is dead. Faith must take form. Zeal is not enough. Words are not enough. Truth must be enfleshed, made manifest in devotion, obedience, and the vow paid in love. This is not a new commandment. It is the first, and it is everything. The ones who knew the most were the furthest from Him. What might we not see, even now?

He did not heal in secret. He waited until their eyes were fixed on him — hostile, watching — and then he opened himself, wounded himself, for love. The Lord of the Sabbath entered the lion’s den not with vengeance, but with vulnerability, because even his accusers were beloved. This is not a tale of moral instruction. It is the revelation of Christ — meek, majestic, descending to the lowest place. The Psalms speak with his voice. The parables are shaped by his descent. Even our own lives only take on meaning in the light of his — our grief, our birth, our prayers: they are his first. We fast, we pray, we serve — not for reward, not even for virtue — but because we want to be like Jesus. Because we love Him. And that is enough.

The Cross we exalt today is not a symbol alone — it is a relic of time and earth. Discovered by Helena, lifted by Constantine, lost to the Persians, and recovered again, it moves through history as it moves through us: hidden, revealed, wounded, victorious. Eusebius saw its triumph in crumbling temples and rising churches. We see it in our own flesh — when we suffer, forgive, endure, obey. The Cross is everywhere present: on our walls, on our bodies, in our prayers, in our pain. And it is beautiful. The world calls it shame. We call it sweet. Because through it, God's love is poured out for us — turning darkness into light, death into joy. Every sorrow, however small, becomes a path. Every burden, however bitter, becomes a blessing. The Cross does not merely save us. It teaches us how to live. And so — we should be happy.

Ten cried out. Ten were healed. But only one came back — fell down, gave thanks, was made whole. This is not just a healing; it is the pattern of all redemption. We have all received, all been touched by mercy, all walked away with skin made new. But have we returned? There is a difference between being cleansed and being saved. Gratitude is not sentiment — it is the shape of faith itself. Worship is the only fitting response to a God who hangs for us, who rises for us, who lives now within us. To see clearly is to thank Him. To thank Him is to live.

He was a man without guile — transparent, true, already half-turned toward glory. And yet even he bore the skin of death, like Adam after the fall. In the icon, he stands holding it: his own flesh, flayed and offered, not in defeat but in exchange — the garment of mortality for the robe of divine light. We are all clothed thus, for now. But through daily dying, we too may become what he became: a witness, a martyr, a friend of God. This skin will not last. It is not our shame but our passage. What if death, for us as for him, is not an end but a bright and terrifying door?

God, whose power hung the stars and split the sea, declares His might not by force, but by mercy. He comes not in thunder, but in the quiet cry of a sinner bowed low in the temple. We recall the Pharisee and the publican: one proud in righteousness, the other poor in spirit — and it is the poor who walk away justified. To be healed, we must not only know our need but speak it aloud. Faith begins in recognition, but it lives in the act of turning — to pray, to cry out, to come near. This is the narrow way: not self-assurance, but surrender. Not complication, but the clear voice of devotion. And always, it begins today.

When the world demanded treasure, St. Lawrence pointed to the poor. When they burned his body, he offered laughter. His martyrdom was not somber resignation but cheerful defiance — not because he felt no pain, but because he saw Christ beyond it. He faced the fire as if it were a feast. This is not irreverence. It is resurrection-shaped courage. We mourn and rejoice in the same breath. We see Christ in each other — on couches of pain, in voices of comfort, in saints who teach us how to die, and how to live. There is no contradiction in joy amid sorrow. God has entered our suffering, yet remains eternal gladness. Despair is the lie. The martyr’s laughter is truth.

The steward was unjust — and yet he was praised, not for his virtue, but his vision. He saw the end coming and acted shrewdly. Christ does not tell us to admire his dishonesty, but his clarity: the world is passing away, and what we do with what we’ve been given matters eternally. What if even our wealth — so often a trap — could become a doorway? We are stewards, not owners. What we hold is not ours to keep, but to offer. If we give freely, even of the unrighteous mammon, we make friends who will welcome us into the everlasting home. Our alms are not lost. They are kept in heaven — moneybags that do not grow old, freight trains of mercy. Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.

Holiness is not the same as goodness. It is not moralism, nor merely clean hands. It is union — with the One who alone is holy. And this holiness has a shape: not spin, not pretense, but fruit. The fruit of confession, of quick repentance, of humble honesty. The false prophet — and the false thought — both wear wool, but devour. The wolf is not always a person. Sometimes it is the voice in our head that tells us to hide. But Christ will not be deceived. He looks not at appearances, but at what grows beneath them. Talk is cheap, He says — it is the will of the Father that bears weight. So we watch for our own fruit. We bring our thoughts into the light. We confess, not to be punished, but to be made real again. This is the path to union. And joy begins wherever pride breaks.

He speaks not to frighten, but to awaken — not with condemnation, but with clarity. The law is not discarded but fulfilled; not lessened, but transfigured. What is asked of us is not more precision, but deeper union: a righteousness not measured by rule, but made possible by mercy — the righteousness of repentance, of love that returns, of faith that trusts. We do not possess this holiness. We receive it. And when we fail — as we will — we are not cast away, but called again to rise, to confess, to walk the narrow way. This is not a system. It is a life. A life tethered to His, shaped by His words: Go, and sin no more.

He is not loitering by the lake. He is looking. The crowd presses near, but His eyes are on those who are not — men still clinging to the safety of nets and night-long toil. They know Him, but they have not yet obeyed. And now the moment arrives: a borrowed boat, a quiet command, and the weight of holiness breaking their nets with more than they can hold. We are not spectators to this story. We, too, are asked to leave the shore — to stop patching the familiar and to trust the voice that says, Put out into the deep. What we fear to lose may be what is keeping us from the Kingdom. And if the bucket is empty, if the nets return void, it may be mercy.

We do not gather today for mere memory or symbol. This bread and this wine are not echoes — they are entry. We are drawn into the fullness of Christ’s work: His descent, His suffering, His glory — given now, not long ago, and given wholly. The Eucharist is not only a sacrament; it is the sacrament as the shape of everything: incarnation, passion, resurrection, divinization. Here is the bread that came down, the gift that is not partial, not diminished. To eat is to receive the whole: not a piece, not a taste — but all. All that He is. All that He has done. The entire mystery, in humble form. We lift the host, not to remember, but to enter. The veil is thin. The signs are radiant. We are surrounded.

He comes as fire — to cleanse, to illumine, to make us sons. At Pentecost, the veil is drawn back, and we glimpse the Triune movement: the Father sends, the Son ascends, and the Spirit descends not only to dwell with us, but to draw us up into God. This is not abstraction — it is love made manifest, power made personal, mission made possible. We are not left as orphans. We are indwelt, infused, ignited. The Spirit does not come for comfort alone but for conquest — not ours, but Christ’s. The land is His. The call is ours. To refuse is peril. To go is joy. The fields are white, and we have been made ready — not by strength, but by love.

He says it plainly now, though it sounds like a riddle: It is better for you that I go. Better for sorrow to come, better for absence — because from this parting flows the Spirit, not beside us, but within. What could sound like abandonment is, in truth, the great reversal — the way the Comforter makes His home in our very breath, our wills, our joy. This joy, impervious and unstealable, does not bypass sorrow but is born through it. It is not understanding that clarifies, but the Spirit. The Spirit who Christifies, who makes many minds into one, who takes the very life of the Son and gives it to us. This is why He leaves — that we may not be left.

Joy is not a mood. It is not passive, and it is not optional. Scripture commands it — not because it’s easy, but because it’s true. We are not waiting for joy to come over us; we are called to step into it, to speak it aloud, to live as if Christ is risen — because He is. In this age of realized hope, joy is no longer a future promise but a present vow. It is not the absence of sorrow, but the fruit of faith — faith that acts, decides, praises. Not led by feeling, but by truth. And when we fulfill that vow, not as a performance but as obedience, we discover: joy is not just strength. It is the rightful atmosphere of resurrection life.

The Shepherd speaks, and his sheep know the sound. It is not a riddle, not a ruse — but the clear, steady voice of the one who laid down his life and took it up again. In this Easter season, we remember that the Risen Lord is not distant. He gathers us still, feeds us still, guards us still. He is not only with us — he is for us. What scatters us — fear, isolation, lack — is undone by his presence. We are no longer alone. We are no longer empty. We are no longer prey. Even now, surrounded by dangers seen and unseen, we rest. Because Christ is our Shepherd, and he will bring us home.

Easter is not a day, but a season — a commanded joy, a feast that stretches fifty days. And joy, like fasting, requires practice. We are learning, slowly, to receive the feast as the Church gives it: not as sentiment, but as discipline, culture, and life. This week, we gathered again and again, not out of obligation, but desire — to savor hymns, to hear stories of the risen Christ, to taste and see. Faith, too, is not born from proof but from hunger. Like Mary at the tomb, we look again — not because it makes sense, but because love won’t let us leave. We remember: doubt is not defeat, and fear is not foreign to the saints. But joy is not optional. It is our inheritance. It is work. And it is worth everything.

Mark begins the resurrection story with a quiet line: “When the Sabbath was over.” But beneath that stillness lies the turning point of all creation. While Christ’s body rested in the tomb, he was not idle — he descended into death, shattered its gates, and raised Adam and Eve by the hand. The age of the Sabbath — of shadows and striving — is over. Christ has fulfilled it. He rises not just for himself, but with all of us in him. The silence is broken. The new day has begun.

This is the day of the cross — dark, sorrowful, and still, somehow, good. The weight Christ bore is beyond bearing: sin laid upon innocence, love met with rejection, light extinguished. And yet, this is the day we venerate, for through that crushing burden, life was won. We are asked to take up the cross as well. But not His. Ours is smaller, shaped for us. It may feel sharp or too much to carry — but it is not. It is light, He says. It is bearable. And when we believe this, even through tears, despair loosens its grip. This sorrow is not the end. It is the way to joy.

This night begins in communion — bread broken, feet washed — and ends in a garden soaked with blood. Christ, abandoned again, prays the one prayer that undoes our exile: Not my will, but thine be done. He enters our isolation fully. Judas sells Him. Peter denies Him. The others sleep or scatter. And still He trusts. From the tree where man once fell, He restores what was lost — not by might, but by surrender. In His obedience, trust is reborn. In His love, we are made free. Now, no betrayal can sever us. No silence can isolate. We are no longer alone.

Tonight the silver is counted. A friend turns betrayer. Jesus is left alone — not just deserted, but handed over, sold. Judas, who walked with Him, shared bread with Him, becomes the figure of all that isolates and breaks trust. And yet, in this abandonment, Christ takes on the full weight of our fear: that no one will stay, that even God might withdraw. He enters that silence and carries it. “There was no one to help,” says the prophet. Still, He goes — and binds us forever with cords that do not break. What was shattered, He makes whole.

Palm Sunday begins Holy Week not with sorrow, but with a proclamation of Christ’s triumph. The palms we bless and carry are not mere symbols — they are signs of His victory over death, reminders that the enemy is already defeated. We enter the week of His passion knowing the end of the story: the cross will give way to resurrection, suffering to joy. Even as we go with Him to Calvary, we do so under the banner of His already-won victory, protected and strengthened by the grace these palms proclaim.

As Passiontide begins, Jesus no longer avoids confrontation — He provokes it. In the temple, He speaks openly of His unity with the Father and the freedom found in His word, yet those who briefly believed in Him turn against Him. Their refusal to receive His teaching is bound to their love of darkness and their unwillingness to repent. Still, He offers freedom to all who turn to the light and remain in His word. In Him, the truth is not an idea but a person — and He stands before us.

We see Him take what is far too little and make it overflow. Five loaves, two fish — nothing that could feed a crowd, yet in His hands it becomes a feast. He shows us that when we give ourselves wholly, even our smallness is enough. The cross still stands ahead, but so does the promise of life beyond it. In His presence, there will always be more than we need.

The mute demon is cast out, but its silence lingers — a silence that reveals more than noise could. Christ shows us that every kingdom has a structure, even the kingdom of evil. It has ranks, roles, even strategy — but no love, no center that holds. This is not just a story of exorcism. It is a warning: if we are not gathered with Christ, we are scattered. Even neglect is a kind of fracture. The Spirit does not fill an empty house unless invited.

He does not ease into Lent — he enters the desert like a warrior, fasting, facing down the enemy, answering every temptation with the voice of the Father. His baptism and his battle, womb and tomb, all come at once. This is the shape of redemption: whole, undivided, already underway. We begin our fast not to become strong, but to remember where our strength comes from.

On Ash Wednesday, we begin our fast — not with dread, but with joy. We remember that abstinence is not deprivation, but power: a weapon against the enemy, a guard for the soul, a path toward freedom. We face our mortality, embrace penance, and enter the season together — publicly, corporately, with ashes and long prayers and hunger. Yet we are warned: without mercy, without almsgiving, without love, the fast fails. Outward acts must be matched by an inward turning. This is how the desert blooms.

On Quinquagesima Sunday, we turn to three encounters: the rich ruler, the disciples, and the blind beggar. Each is a mirror — of privilege, proximity, and poverty. We watch as the ones with sight and status remain in darkness, while the blind man sees clearly. What opens the way is not knowledge or access, but faith — a faith that cries out, won’t be silenced, and stops Jesus in his tracks. Grace, we learn, flows freely — but only fills what we are willing to open.

On Sexagesima Sunday, we turn to the Parable of the Sower. We reflect on the four kinds of soil — and the unsettling truth that most who receive the word do not endure. This isn’t meant to discourage, but to prepare us: for the real dangers of a hardened heart, shallow roots, and a life slowly crowded by the cares of the world. We consider what it means to cling with faithfulness — to show up, to endure, to finish well. Not with brilliance or speed, but with steady trust and love that lasts.

Jesus made His home in Capernaum. It was where He lived, taught, healed — a center of His ministry and the site of countless miracles. And yet, it became a place of indifference. Those closest to Him, like the people of Nazareth, did not believe. Today we reflect on the contrast between proximity and faith — between those who saw and turned away, and a Roman outsider whose belief astonished Christ. We ask what it means to live close to the holy and not be changed. Have we grown so familiar? We should be in awe.

Today in Cana, a village not far from Nazareth, the village where the disciple Nathanael grew up in a small house built into the hill, a young couple, a boy and a girl, friends or maybe relatives of Mary, are celebrating their marriage. Was the love of this boy and girl not also a sign of the day of union of Christ and his bride the Church? And furthermore is that greater union, of Christ and the Church not also a sign? A sign of the love that eternally flows between Father, Son and Spirit.

The flesh of man now made the glorious apparel of Christ is glorious because it is a manifestation of His love. What shall we do in response to this love? We must follow him. We must become as little children, because he became a little child.

Third Mass of Christmas 2024

First Mass of Christmas 2024

Hast thou not known? Hast thou not heard? That the everlasting God, the Lord, the Creator of the ends of the earth, fainteth not neither is weary. He giveth power to the faint, and to them that have no might, he increaseth strength. Even the youths shall faint and be weary, and the young men shall utterly fall, but they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength.

Advent III 2024