The Sighing Tomb
There You are. Laying in a tomb in the dark. Your body cold and stiff. Each cell of that physicality which lately held the Eternal, now rests in stillness. And Your Spirit, descended below, is storming the gates of hell, taking no prisoners. Your glorious armor, Your flaming sword, Your fiery eyes; an army self contained. Was there ever such a battle waged before or since?
All the night long You show Your face all ablaze with fearsome Glory and Majesty and the mighty legions draw back and tremble. The hounds of hell cower bitterly, still hungering for Your blood. But You are here with a purpose, to reclaim what is Yours. Souls that strove once for redemption by blood, tears, and sackcloth, now awaken. What no sacrifice or penance could attain, is now accomplished by Grace and Mercy. Freedom. What great light is this? The only daylight hell has ever seen, enters in to release those forlorn captives.
Death itself, that Angelic Ronan, bows down at last to serve a new Master. You, Lord. Messiah King, receiving back that golden thread of vitality, like a royal scepter. You ascend now once more to the silent tomb at midnight to rebuild the temple. The stone walls concealing that glorious dawn from the sleepers without. Your light warming again that chill fleshly husk. Your Spirit breathes life into dust on this sixth eve, as it did to that first man on the sixth morning. The cells all begin to pulse and fire at once. The blood around your wounds glistens, precious as rubies. Glory in the hidden place. Indeed this is how you enter the darkness of human hearts as well. Light into despair. Love into hopelessness. Returning to life what death has claimed.
The walls of the tomb groan for they see you stir and rise and they ache to cry out, as stones will do when man is too silent or ignorant to praise. You bid them speak not and they obey, but they are too weak to contain such Glory without singing. So they release you. The great stone reverently shifts aside in obedient silence. And You move out into the predawn darkness. Loveliness passing by sleeping centurions, Grace moving between the trees. A crescent Moon gazes down in astonishment at a light more enchanting than he can ever be, even at his fullest. You move to a place apart to watch the sunrise over the Mount of Olives. A New Sabbath is dawning. A new Kingdom is come.
You listen with ears that hear the sleepless prayers of those You left behind. The ache, the grief, the tears of loss and shame. The horror of knowing that You are no longer there. Oh such a tenderness that surges in Your breast for those brothers, those sons. Your heart summoned by their sorrow, brings You to Your feet and sets Your face to Galilee, the Dead Sea forever at Your back.
Your eyes see the women who have risen in the night, tears still flowing, as they prepare to come to You. To anoint You with one final act of love and to touch Your face one last time. Those whose fingers last washed Your bleeding brow with weeping as You carried Your cross to the place of skulls. Such is their gift, these sisters, these daughters. That while men grieve, immovable, with faces hidden, women by the strength of love, move through pain in both life and death for the sake of love itself. They will embrace the grief and let its fangs tear at them even more deeply all for the gain of that last touch, that lingering kiss upon the brow, that whisper into death's ear... "I still believe."
This You see and know, and Your heart's yearning becomes a command for Your attending angels. They go to meet those fair missionaries, those unsung apostles and find them at the entrance of the sighing tomb. Gazing in at the empty cave, with naught but burial clothes to attest Your presence, the women go from confusion to panic, to utter sorrow in an instant. "Oh where have they laid my Lord!" they cry weeping. Until those Messengers speak and declare You, "The Living" in their ears. And then their hearts, like that gaping tomb can scarce contain it. They run from that place with words and joy upon their lips too wonderful to be believed and yet too perfectly glorious to be denied.
"He Is Risen!"
All the night long You show Your face all ablaze with fearsome Glory and Majesty and the mighty legions draw back and tremble. The hounds of hell cower bitterly, still hungering for Your blood. But You are here with a purpose, to reclaim what is Yours. Souls that strove once for redemption by blood, tears, and sackcloth, now awaken. What no sacrifice or penance could attain, is now accomplished by Grace and Mercy. Freedom. What great light is this? The only daylight hell has ever seen, enters in to release those forlorn captives.
Death itself, that Angelic Ronan, bows down at last to serve a new Master. You, Lord. Messiah King, receiving back that golden thread of vitality, like a royal scepter. You ascend now once more to the silent tomb at midnight to rebuild the temple. The stone walls concealing that glorious dawn from the sleepers without. Your light warming again that chill fleshly husk. Your Spirit breathes life into dust on this sixth eve, as it did to that first man on the sixth morning. The cells all begin to pulse and fire at once. The blood around your wounds glistens, precious as rubies. Glory in the hidden place. Indeed this is how you enter the darkness of human hearts as well. Light into despair. Love into hopelessness. Returning to life what death has claimed.
The walls of the tomb groan for they see you stir and rise and they ache to cry out, as stones will do when man is too silent or ignorant to praise. You bid them speak not and they obey, but they are too weak to contain such Glory without singing. So they release you. The great stone reverently shifts aside in obedient silence. And You move out into the predawn darkness. Loveliness passing by sleeping centurions, Grace moving between the trees. A crescent Moon gazes down in astonishment at a light more enchanting than he can ever be, even at his fullest. You move to a place apart to watch the sunrise over the Mount of Olives. A New Sabbath is dawning. A new Kingdom is come.
You listen with ears that hear the sleepless prayers of those You left behind. The ache, the grief, the tears of loss and shame. The horror of knowing that You are no longer there. Oh such a tenderness that surges in Your breast for those brothers, those sons. Your heart summoned by their sorrow, brings You to Your feet and sets Your face to Galilee, the Dead Sea forever at Your back.
Your eyes see the women who have risen in the night, tears still flowing, as they prepare to come to You. To anoint You with one final act of love and to touch Your face one last time. Those whose fingers last washed Your bleeding brow with weeping as You carried Your cross to the place of skulls. Such is their gift, these sisters, these daughters. That while men grieve, immovable, with faces hidden, women by the strength of love, move through pain in both life and death for the sake of love itself. They will embrace the grief and let its fangs tear at them even more deeply all for the gain of that last touch, that lingering kiss upon the brow, that whisper into death's ear... "I still believe."
This You see and know, and Your heart's yearning becomes a command for Your attending angels. They go to meet those fair missionaries, those unsung apostles and find them at the entrance of the sighing tomb. Gazing in at the empty cave, with naught but burial clothes to attest Your presence, the women go from confusion to panic, to utter sorrow in an instant. "Oh where have they laid my Lord!" they cry weeping. Until those Messengers speak and declare You, "The Living" in their ears. And then their hearts, like that gaping tomb can scarce contain it. They run from that place with words and joy upon their lips too wonderful to be believed and yet too perfectly glorious to be denied.
"He Is Risen!"
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