You call Your people near, not with noise, but with fragrance. Rising sweetness set upon a golden altar, morning and evening. Faithful as breath. You teach us that nearness is not casual, not careless. But tended, a steady flame, a guarded mixture, a holy offering that belongs to You alone. You number Your people not to count their worth, but to cover them, each life acknowledged, each soul remembered, each ransom a reminder that we are Yours because You have claimed us. And then the basin, quiet, shining, waiting, where hands and feet meet water, and water meets dust, and dust remembers that holiness is not hurried. Here, in these three gifts, incense, silver, and washing, You, teach us how to come: with worship, with humility, with cleansing, with hearts prepared for the nearness we were made for.