Friday passed in a rush of horror. The darkness and thorns of Gethsemane. The burn of betrayal. The blood mixed with sweat. The rake of the whip. The jeers of Golgotha. The rust of the nails. The splinters of the beam. The bitterness of the wine. The anguish of the end.
Surely that Saturday was the darkest day in history. Darker in the mind even than Friday. Perhaps on Friday, they waited. They had seen the dead man walk at his command. They had seen the dead girl smile at her father. Surely, he wasn’t gone. Surely, this wasn’t the end.
But by Saturday, they had to know. He was gone. Their leader was gone, their mission aborted. Satan danced, and they felt the brush of his robes as he twirled in jubilation.
I wonder how many gave up. How many saw the stone rolled, left the tomb, and went home. I wonder how many saw it as the closing of the door – rather than the tearing of the curtain.
I wonder how many gave up without even realize that Sunday was just over the horizon.
Did they hear the news later? Did they doubt like Thomas, or fall supplicant like the women at the tomb? Did they lament their shallow faith?
The blood of Friday.
The darkness of Saturday.
The power of Sunday.
Because without Sunday, the word was dead. The faith was false. But with Sunday – the world was saved.
Death cannot keep its prey, Jesus my Savior;
He tore the bars away, Jesus my Lord! Up from the grave He arose,
With a mighty triumph o'er His foes;
He arose a victor from the dark domain,
And He lives forever with His saints to reign.
He arose! He arose!
HALLELUJAH! CHRIST AROSE!