Good Friday

This is the day they crucified my Lord

I can hear the hills beneath Him weeping
And feel the weight of grief and disappointment
Crush the souls and sand journeying home from Golgotha

Yet through the quaking earth and the broken rocks
God cries to us “I am here.”

Today is not the end of this story, He whispers
Wait then, on bleeding knees, with your brothers and sisters,


Because Sunday is coming — 
Sunday was always coming.

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