It is Saturday and the hands that healed the sick and raised the dead and opened blind eyes and unstopped deaf ears are still. The One who spoke a word to dispel demons is silent. The Man who said, "Whoever believes in Me, though he were dead, yet shall he live," is dead.
With Him died hope--the hope for deliverance from the occupying Roman Army.
With Him died hope--the hope for restored health to sick bodies and despondent souls.
With Him died hope--the hope that death could be defeated.
The world breathes a heavy sigh of disappointment and despair and goes about its business of baking bread and selling goods and raising its children and praying for a deliverer.
It is Saturday and everything has returned to the way it was before the Galilean arrived with His amazing message. Everything has reverted to the mundane rigor of daily tedium. Everything is quiet and still, for everyone is weighted under the burden of lost joy.
It is Saturday and the gloom is heavy; the fog of incredulity shrouds the eyes that had hoped they saw deliverance in the Man who died on the cross yesterday.
It is Saturday. The disappointed who are milling about, the disciples who are mourning, the devil who is euphoric, don't know it, but they're all waiting for Sunday morning.
The world breathes a heavy sigh of disappointment and despair and goes about its business of baking bread and selling goods and raising its children and praying for a deliverer.
It is Saturday and everything has returned to the way it was before the Galilean arrived with His amazing message. Everything has reverted to the mundane rigor of daily tedium. Everything is quiet and still, for everyone is weighted under the burden of lost joy.
It is Saturday and the gloom is heavy; the fog of incredulity shrouds the eyes that had hoped they saw deliverance in the Man who died on the cross yesterday.
It is Saturday. The disappointed who are milling about, the disciples who are mourning, the devil who is euphoric, don't know it, but they're all waiting for Sunday morning.
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