| What are we to make of yesterday? As we unpinned Him from that tree, wiped the spit from His mouth, mopped the dried blood caked on His forehead... As we cast off that crown of thorns and wrapped Him up in swaddling cloths, as if He was some poor innocent new born baby... What are we to make of it? I think of those soldiers gambling for His clothes; playing games at the foot of the cross, as if playing games with God Himself. The saying goes that 'cursed is a man hung upon a tree; accursed by God'. What then are we to make of His death? Was Jesus a curse for God? A curse for humankind, perhaps, after all it was humans that put Him there. And the tomb: cramped and confined, as small as a stable. We lay His precious head in a new tomb, as if we were tucking a child into a newly-made bed; as if we were burying death itself. It's stony silent today, as if the world is in mourning; as if somehow we'll never forget what happened yesterday; as if things will never be the same. We'll prepare the spices and head for the mouth of the tomb early tomorrow morning. But for now we'll wait. And Jesus will sleep. Sleep, Jesus, sleep, cold and alone, your passion spent behind an unmoveable stone. |
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