This never was the end. Spring, the cyclical moment on the calendar which occupies a few of the 365 spaces every year, purports to renew annually the human covenant. It is the emerging, the redeeming, the proclaiming time. It could be tragedy. But tragedy is a lie in Spring.
Spring is the antithesis of tragedy, the time of truth and grace.
It cannot last, it does not last. But for all that transiency, it is unmistakeably eternal. Eternity, in the image of Spring, is not static and heavy. It is not redundant or repetitive. It is not mountainous.