It’s always Saturday that catches me off guard -the closeness of Good Friday and Easter.
Christianity’s deepest horror and its most ecstatic joy sit back to back, and barely 24 hours can slip between. The interim of stillness and sadness is but a breath.
The Lord could have named any number in the tomb but He who does all things intentionally chose a span so short it’s nearly transparent. What is He saying in the brevity?
The Inspiration of the Psalmist’s words writes the object lesson large on His own flesh and bone: “Weeping lasts for the night, but joy comes with the morning”—joy comes like a surprise visitor or a resurrected Savior, leaving you shocked and speechless. That’s how it will be.
Sorrow will by comparison seem to have only lasted a night, and that eternal morning will break and it’ll be dawn forever.
It’s a short breath of dark and doubt, and stumbling stammering through this pain-wracked world before the clouds will roll back like a scroll and we’ll count it all joy. Weighing the light and momentary afflictions in one hand, they’ll blow off like dust as the wind picks up and we gaze on the brightness of our new Home and the One who is Home. He’ll dust off our knees and wipe the tears from our stained cheeks, and kiss the wounds, and say with Samwise Gamgee that everything sad has come untrue. And we’ll know then why He could only be three days in the grave. Death, darkness and pain were but a moment, a sting of shock before a lifetime of ecstatic delight.