Holy Saturday
Jesus’ body is taken down from the cross
His spirit and his life he breathes in all,
Now on this cross his body breathes no more.
Here at the center everything is still,
Spent, and emptied, opened to the core.
A quiet taking down, a prizing loose,
A cross-beam lowered like a weighing scale,
Unmaking of each thing that had its use,
A long withdrawing of each bloodied nail.
This is ground zero, emptiness and space,
With nothing left to say or think or do,
But look unflinching on the sacred face
That cannot move or change or look at your.
Yet in that prizing loose and letting be
He has unfastened you and set you free.
Jesus is laid in the tomb
Here at the center everything is still,
Before the stir and movement of our grief
That bears it pain with rhythm, ritual,
Beautiful useless gestures of relief.
So they point the skin that cannot feel
And soothe his ruined flesh with tender care,
Kissing the wounds they know they cannot heal,
With incense scenting only empty air.
He blesses every love that weeps and grieves,
And makes our grief the pangs of a new birth.
The love that’s poured in silence at old graves,
Renewing flowers, tending the bare earth,
Is never lost. In him all love is found
And sown with him, a seed in the rich ground.
Malcolm Guite, from Sounding the Seasons