Holy Week

It is Holy Week, and Friday’s coming.

Even as Mary rocked the manger in Bethlehem, Friday’s knife-wound blackness and hope hovered over the Baby, biding its time, awaiting the day of fulfillment of the promise.

In that birth is death; in that first Christmas Day is Friday, the purpose of the Incarnation, for which the whole creation has long been groaning. In that death is liberation, reconciliation, new life, peace with God. Eden.

Friday’s coming, with the bitterness of the scourging, the blood, the vicious crown of thorns, the buffeting hands, the mockery, the scorn, the lies and heated cries of blasphemy followed by the rent garments. The crucifixion.

Indeed, Friday’s coming, and the rejoicing in Hell, less than a second in duration, will give way to roars of bitterly anguished defeat.

Friday’s coming. We need it.

Friday’s coming. We long for it.

Friday’s coming. We want Him to die.

Friday’s coming. We need him to die.

Friday’s coming. He must die! That’s the only way we can live.

Friday’s coming.

Let us rejoice and be exceedingly glad for the narrow way to Eden passes only through Good Friday and the Sacrificed Lamb of God.