Written by Zammie King

The sky robbed of its colour 
our king stripped of His robe
as He slowly
descended into the cascade of the tomb; 
somehow the Light of the world 
into a seemingly eternal darkness 

Many scoff and laugh 
drink and dance, 
others watch in painful agony 
as Hope dies in front of their very eyes 
a gaze that shatters their belief like glass 
they stand in solidarity 
and wonder in this 
dim solemn hour, 
will good prevail through this? 
How could Catastrophe triumph over the chosen Messiah?

It feels as though 
they have lost their sight
and yet 
so much light yields 
from the darkness. 

A baby’s heart begins to beat. 
In the shadowed silence of the womb 
just as hope came to life 
in the encasement of the tomb 

But it is hard to believe 
when clarity is no longer vivid 

Either way 
as they waited and prayed, 
lamented and wept in utter dismay,
God’s Glory was being woven into the tapestry of their story. 
For what is the hymn of resurrection Sunday 
without the sombre song of 
Good Friday? 

So perhaps what feels like burial is 
blooming into a harvest

And death is making way 
for a resurrection.