Good Friday

From The Rabbit Room (emphasis mine):

(See Matthew 27:1-61, Mark 15:1-47, Luke 23:1-56, John 18:28-19:42.)

"On Thursday night in Gethsemane, Jesus was arrested—betrayed by one of His own disciples and abandoned by the others. The Chief Priests and the Sanhedrin called for secret trials in the dead of night, and the verdict handed down was that Jesus would be crucified. This was something the Roman Prefect, Pontius Pilate, would have to execute. And reluctantly, he did.

After a severe beating, Jesus was nailed to a cross where He’d remain for six hours until dead.

Never before or since had more been lost and gained at the same time as at Jesus’ crucifixion.

The world gained the atoning sacrifice of Christ. But for those present, either the significance of the moment was lost on them or their hearts broke because the One they believed to be the Savior of the world was dying at the hands of Rome. They couldn’t stop it and they didn’t realize it was for them. They hoped in Him, and though He had told them He would suffer many things and rise three days later, (Mk 8:31)how could they have possibly known this was what He meant?"

Today my mind keeps wandering to those who were present at the crucifixion. The very moment they were given life itself; the very moment they received the complete and unmerited mercy and grace of eternity seemed, by all accounts, to be the single most devastating event of their lives.

I don't understand it, but I'm so, so thankful that His ways are not mine, that from sorrow will come song, and from tomb, breath and life.

This poem...oh, this poem. I'm sharing it with my kids today. Risky? Yes. Do I care? No.

A Night Poem (For Easter)
Andrew Peterson

I lie in bed these sweet few days
When the windows yet are open
And the weather yet is fine,
And love to hear the dead of night
Announce its living presence
With hoot and croak and creeping vine.

I love the knowledge that for years
As I have waited on the bench
Beneath the juniper tree,
And paid such close attention,
There is an owl I’ve never seen
An owl, I know, who watches me.

I love the sound of secret things,
I love to hear their nearness,
And to feel their wildness, too.
(Three days ago we sowed the seeds
And every hour I check the dirt
For seedlings pushing through.)

I lie in bed awake, alert,
Aware of the God of the Garden.
I sense in the seed a promise,
An unfolding resurrection
In the furrowed row, in soil
And root, in husk and humus.

I sense an ancient heart alive
Who haunts these moonlit acres,
Blessing, bringing life from death,
Dawn from darkness, song from sorrow.
The night owl swoops, the zephyr sighs;
I hear within the tomb: a breath.