I am really embarrassed, because the old prayerbook, from which I've been copying the Antiphons, has gone missing. And I missed last weekend too. Big time bummer.
Reminds me of some little thing I wrote down in December 1984 about the anguish of waiting.
The night is empty, dark, and cold.
I trudge along the road
Rememb'ring dimly being told
So long ago when I was young
From dark like this new hope has sprung.
The memory's old and faint and pale
Has little power to lift my load
And free me from my inner jail.