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
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
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
So perhaps what feels like burial is
blooming into a harvest
And death is making way
for a resurrection.