I surrender, Lord, I yield, your JOY is greater,

than mine, or theirs.  Greater is your mother's JOY than my mother's,

for you who were her first born son will rise, and walk after you have been dead twice to her.

And the sirens sing outside the window, a melancholy song of New York and the underprivileged,

of the Bishop who pays the rent that keeps my family in the middle class, and I, I yield to you the coming day, that

I begrudged my family, for I have learned to love a little better and

what greater JOY than to rise from the grave and meet Mother in the garden, "Woman, your son lives."

Rain, rain that washed the grimy city let go to grey today,

by tomorrow, the clouds will be clearing, and Sunday will dawn, Dawn, DAWN!

I can hear the voices of my family, who know my jealousy, and carefully caress my ears, but I will shake my head,

and greet them with the first 'praise the lord' that I have spoken in all of what?  47 days?

for Joy returns in the morning, and it is not my Joy, save to watch and listen and remember.

I will sing your praise again, and that last and most beautiful of songs will sweeten my tongue,

and if any would celebrate me, I will not hang my head in jealousy, nor scorn them with your Joy,

but open my lips oh lord and hear the praise with which I answer them.  God, take this day, which

like every day is yours, and keep it as a holy day, lest I in foolish pride return to celebrate myself,

rather than Spring, which is born in your son, not my mother's daughter.