It is as if the ringing in the ears has finally stopped, replaced by a strange silence as if after suffering some terrible delirium. The dark dreams still haunt the waking soul. There are still those images fixed in the mind, His body stripped naked, His hands gushing forth blood as the nails push through His flesh, the hoisting up in the air, and then those terrible, terrible cries that issue forth from His mouth - cries that seem to subvert the desolation of a condemned criminal, but rather command nature itself. Then, death and darkness - the Earth shudders as life is wrenched from God's body.
All this seems unreal, just a dream, and yet it happened. The crowds at the cross will testify to that. The following day has been spent trying to process it. In the stillness of the Sabbath, coming to terms with Jesus death is proving far from still. The images flash through the mind, yet cling to it as if trapped in amber. Every where the mind turns, it is met with the head crowned with thorns lolling lifelessly, eyes still staring out into the world. This cannot be forgotten. The body has been taken down hastily, a tomb provided by a good, kind man, but the body is not prepared for burial. It lies in the tomb as if it were unloved, unwanted - a bit of an inconvenience. Yet this is not the case for He is still loved with such a passion by weak and silly souls who could not cope with an end like this. In the cool of the morning, with sleep staying out of reach as if the soul repels it, it is time to address the wrong. It is time to show Him that He is loved.
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