Holy Saturday

Another day, another coffee shop,
Longing for resurrection, wondering
If they knew they were waiting, that the stop
Was long expected, that the thundering
Was temporary. Could they fathom hope
Persisting past the ending of the dream?
Was life from death a long-forgotten trope?
Was this beyond God’s power to redeem?
Or worse, was this his will? Could they not see,
Deceived by words so many had refused,
Tricked by the man—for man he seemed to be?
Others were healed, but he died bloodied, bruised.
The silent tomb was sealed. What would they do?
Was anything they once believed still true?

Photo by Anandu Vinod on Unsplash


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