Holy Week: A Poem

We call it good 

on this side of history – 

because we know how the story ends

and the hope it promises.

It wasn’t good then.

Desperate, anxious midnight prayers.  Terror 

over what would come.  Sweat, blood,

and tears.  Friends not even standing close. Clank

of swords and armor, bobs of light, swish

of a cloak.  The kiss

of betrayal.

This was Friday morning.

Hounded by questions, doubts, and fears.  He

couldn’t possibly be who He

said He was.  He

was not what they wanted.  He

was too dangerous.

Thorns, spit, beatings, flogging, mocking.

Blood dripping,

pain searing,

heart pounding,

lungs straining.

Abandoned, alone, rejected.

This was Friday morning.

Tree raised high.  Skin laid bear.  

Nails pressed deep.  Lungs straining and 

breath gasping.  Words bursting.

“It is finished.”

This was Friday afternoon.

Blackened sky and quaking earth.  

The veil was torn, but

death still reigned.

This was Friday evening.

“God blessed the seventh day 

and declared it holy, 

for on it He rested 

from all His work of creation.”

Saturday Sabbath dawns.

The world brought to a standstill.

Disbelief, shock, horror, and grief 

on the one hand.  

How could the Messiah be dead?

Satisfaction on the other –

a threat was removed. 

Pharisees could rest now.

“God blessed the seventh day

and declared it holy…”

Holy Saturday – we call it –

a Sabbath for the new creation He had seeded –

in life and in death.

Saturday passed.  Sunday awoke.

Grief struck anew.  

“Where have they taken my lord?”

Empty tomb, 

emptier heart.

Then the impossible.

But nothing is impossible with God.

The old has passed away;

the new has come.

Death is defeated.

A new kind of life.

A new promise for the future.

This was Sunday morning.

And it was very good indeed.

References:

Genesis 1:31, 2:2

Luke 1:37, 22-23

John 19-20

1 Corinthians 5:17