For All that is Good

For all that is good. For all that is Holy.  For all that is sacred.

I lift my face.

For all who weep. For all who mourn. For all who have lost.

I lift my voice.

Between Friday and Sunday there is lament.

Distress. Regret. Grief.

Between Friday and Sunday there are tears.

Weeping. Wailing. Sobs.

Between Friday and Sunday there is a heavily burdened heart.

Taking stock of its burden. Counting its loss. Feeling its pain. 

Fully. Completely. Deeply.

Tearing of garments. Heaping of ashes.

A season of sorrow. A season to sit. A season of silence.

Only feelings are allowed to speak in such seasons.

Logic and intellect sit out. Reason and judgement take a rest.

All defer to lament.

For all that is good. For all that is Holy.  For all that is sacred.

I lift my face.

For all who weep. For all who mourn. For all who have lost.

I lift my voice.

Ask the disciples what lament feels like.

Hearts ripped to shreds. Overtaken by agony.

Bowed knees and heads. Trembling with grief. Sobbing with sorrow.

Such a turn. Such a twist.

A swift shift. Shrinking into the shadows. Darkness came suddenly and completely.

The lamentation cries heard, but more so felt.

Such a burden. Such an ache.

How could it be? This victory turned nightmare.

How could it be? This Savior turned sacrifice.

How could it be?

The doubt. The disbelief. The depression.

Overtaken by lament. All is lost. All is gone. Vanished in a wisp. Everything disappeared.

Their eyes inward. Their pain turned to pity on themselves.

In their grief. Blindness.

Blindness to the past. Lost memory of faithful days. Forgotten moments.

Oh, the boldness when they were with him.

But in the darkness of sorrow, all is disregarded. All is absent.

They are scattered. They are adrift.

Unable to hear. Unable to see.

Lost in the loss.

Bewildered in the between. 

For all that is good. For all that is Holy.  For all that is sacred.

I lift my face.

For all who weep. For all who mourn. For all who have lost.

I lift my voice.

They are lost. But He is not.

They wander and wonder. He stands and stays.

They hide. He seeks.

He sheds his garments of death. He walks out of the grave.

The stone cannot hold him. The tomb has to release its prey.

The cowering disciples are nowhere near as the sun rises.

Another swift shift. An unexpected plot twist.

A Sunday Sonrise.

In an instant all is changed.

Death is defeated. Sorrow is stolen. Freedom is found. Oppression is obliterated. Shackles are shattered. Lament is lost.

All is new. All is grace.  All is transformed.

In. An. Instant.

Mission accomplished.

Once again, He lifts his face and his voice.

For all that is good. For all that is Holy.  For all that is sacred.

I lift my face.

For all who weep. For all who mourn. For all who have lost.

I lift my voice.

For all who are poor. For all who are brokenhearted. For all who are captive.

I lift my life.

You are free. It is finished.

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