This verse appeared in Week 1 as well. And like Psalm 46:10, it's here again because hope needs repetition even more than anxiety does. Because hope is fragile. It doesn't survive on one hearing. It needs to be spoken into the night over and over until the night starts to believe it.

"Weeping may stay for the night" — notice the word "stay." Like a guest. Like something temporary that arrived and took up residence but doesn't own the house. The weeping is staying. But it isn't moving in. It doesn't have a lease. It has an expiration.

And "joy comes in the morning" — the Hebrew word for "comes" is the same word used for a physical arrival. Joy doesn't seep in gradually like fog. It comes. It shows up. With intention. With force. With the same certainty as dawn. You don't manufacture morning. You don't earn morning. Morning happens because that's what the night is followed by. Always. Without exception. Even the longest nights — the ones that felt endless, the ones where you checked the clock at 3am and couldn't believe it was only 3am — even those nights ended. And so will this one. The joy that's coming isn't a theory. It's as reliable as sunrise. And it's headed your direction.