Since time flies one way like an arrow, the sugar canâ€™t be stirred out of your oatmeal and no matter how long the murderer sobs on the median stripâ€”sorry!â€”he canâ€™t reverse his swerve, cannot rescind his drink
before the crash. Like him, was Jesus heartsick to find historyâ€™s not a zipper running both ways? He who loved eternityâ€”its roominess, its reversibilityâ€”as he grew up, did he have to learn he never could unsay a thing
heâ€™d said? And yet today, like all Good Fridays, He hangs on the cross again. On altars he hangs. On necklaces. His death is like an x that rides the wheels of time to come again in ritual, that miniature eternity, that spring
re-sprung. Dear God, there in your big eternity, remember that your hands and feet can never be unscarred again. Hear these words spoken by a body that suffers, by a tongue that will stiffen soon and be gone.
Have mercy on us who love time. May this prayer be a tire that rolls over every inch of the way to find You. May it be a bell which can never be unrung.