The light from the flames draws shadows on the faces of the fallen.
There is a weight of somberness oppressing the space,
and the incense rises slowly, like the tepid words of the faithful
that call upon the God-head to remember them.
The icons peer down from their holy dwelling places
with heads hung as they contemplate the loneliness of abandonment.
The faithful stand gathered together in memoriam,
each quivering alone with hopeful despair,
yet not daring to reveal such audacity, even to himself.
The sanctuary is quiet and the sacred is out of reach.
There is a thrice-heavy knock.
Lord, have mercy.
Lord, have mercy.
Lord, have mercy.
The candles tremble with their own luminosity,
the one wavering hymn in this empty place.
There is nothing but silence and weary eyes searching for truth.
And then, the doors open!
There are trumpets singing alongside choirs and choirs and choirs!
Endless trains of gossamer and silk,
all flowing to make space for the mystery revealed.
The faithful are one collective sigh and eyes bright with belonging.
They are walking signs of glory.
The light touches even the darkest crevices, leaving nowhere to hide.
A little child, face aglow with holy innocence,
laughs and claps at the beauty around him.
Hands extend upwards and are met with the soft touch of divinity.
The troparion is full of celebration.
The liturgy, one of praise.
Alleluia.
Alleluia.
Alleluia.