It seems that some call the day between Good Friday and Easter, Holy Saturday. I call it something else. I call it

The Last Sabbath

There was no light that day, no sun to rise
Nor cocks to crow its coming, for death reigned.
It had its rule over all creation;
Grief became the ruling reality.

Their footsteps fell as stones to terrorize
Deaf ears, blind eyes, in hearts hollow and strained.

The echoes of their whispers made them run,
Seeking security, finding futility.

No synangogue was safe, nor inn refuge;
To caves and boats they turned, furtine and poor.

In stealth they came, these wretched, so-called men,
To share their muting sorrow, anger, pain.

Three years! So close, yet they used subterfuge
So well they weren't aware of it before.

It should have wrenched them to their senses when
They saw him marked by that death kiss' disdain.

They ran from him, from agony, from truth,
Ran feeling fear and doubt at heel and heart.

The night was wet and magnified their woe.
Three years! He in the grave, they for their trades.

There was no rest but from fatigue, and youth
Denied them that till dawn, when they would part.

They had no hope nor home, just boats to go
Again into the mocking world, unmade.

Yet two who had more wish than sense crept down
To see the tomb give up its captive source.

The cock, the sun, the soldiers paralyzed
Before their doubtful bleary wishing eyes.

They fell in exhausted sleep till a sound
Of women's voices woke them to remorse.

They rubbed their sleepy eyes, then, galvanized
By hopeful memory, they ran to realize
That Sabbath past the Lord of Sabbath rose,
In his freedom our freedom did disclose.





Okay, so I ran their Sabbath into our Easter Sunday. Call that poetic license.