In your dormition, O Theotokos, quiet dwells in all things, as though the earth were holding its breath, and as though heaven were lowering its wings to receive you with an indescribable tenderness.
It is not said of you that you "were absent," for the absent is one who hides from hearts; and you, O full of grace, your radiance has only grown within us.
You who taught us that God is not approached with words, but with the throb of a heart, and with a silence that carries within it an immeasurable fullness.
Your heart, O Virgin, is the silence that spoke, and the presence that needed no announcement. Your face is the face of a mother that does not grow old. And your tenderness is the warmth of being when the world grows cold.
You were the heaven that walked upon the earth, and you have now become the earth that whispers to heaven our names.
In your dormition, we do not weep for you as those who mourn the absent — no, we rest, because you still embrace us, gathering our weakness, and hearing our groaning even before we raise our voice.
You are the mother who does not tire, awaiting us at the thresholds of weariness; and when we arrive heavy-laden, you do not only open your arms,
but lay us gently at the feet of your Son, where the true peace is.
O mother of the love that is never emptied, teach us to listen to the voice of God amid the noise, to carry Christ in our depths, to be a small light in the darkness of this world, as you were.