Which is to say this blessing is always.
Which is to say there is no place this blessing does not long to cry out in lament, to weep its words in sorrow, to scream its lines in sacred rage.
Which is to say there is no day this blessing ceases to whisper into the ear of the dying, the despairing, the terrified.
Which is to say there is no moment this blessing refuses to sing itself into the heart of the hated and the hateful, the victim and the victimizer, with every last hope it has.
Which is to say there is none that can stop it, none that can halt its course, none that will still its cadence, none that will delay its rising, none that can keep it from springing forth from the mouths of us who hope, from the hands of us who act, from the hearts of us who love, from the feet of us who will not cease our stubborn, aching, marching, marching until this blessing has spoken its final word, until this blessing has breathed its benediction in every place, in every tongue:
--- by Jan Richardson, 2017, The Cure for Sorrow: A Book of Blessings for Times of Grief