God, the way, show us the way, God. Through the wound, with open hands prepared for the good work. In

us, work. In us, the blood — this human ichor — is the oil for the fire we need to move. It is the evidence we

are here, together. Move us, God. Past counterfeit mercy and thin action. Let us wake prepared after surviving

the night. Let us not kneel at stone figures and wait for them to move. Move us, God. Encourage us, God. To

know green pastures and the stones that wait for our slingshots. Encourage us, God, to dance. Feet stomping

out of grave clothes. Old wine skins, thrown down. We flesh. We spirit, God. We ask to be made True and be

revealed in it. God, the way, show us the way, God. In the nowhere of death, let us find each other and rebuild

life. In the everything that is you, may we find courage to name oppression and call it down. We gospel, God.

We anger and language fire. We fire language and present our bodies as oiled blades, unsheathed, prepared.