Sunday Easter we’ll go to the tomb
and the stone will be rolled away.
Funeral shrouds folded, unused,
‘He is not here,’ the angels will say.
But today I’m in a garden
of herbs bitter and sweet;
for it’s a Friday of the soul
and on Golgotha we must meet.
Someday we’ll walk to the old graveyard,
and find that bodies did not stay.
Heaven’s curtains shall fold back
old wounds be washed away.
But today, our backs are bleeding.
The empty house more than we can bear,
and the tears we spill on Golgotha’s hill
remind us of the Savior who died there.
– For Rachel