It is Friday
And I stand at the foot of the cross.
Nothing can be said, nothing can be done.
Action is futile.
I can hold the other's hands and weep, but I cannot be comforted.
It is Friday
And I stand at the foot of the cross.
The air is heavy still with waiting and longing.
Waiting for the inevitable, longing for the impossible.
Can this cup pass from me?
I look around me – all the colors are muted.
Dusty browns and grays – Cold and metallic.
Rolling black clouds cover the brilliant blue of the sky
As my soul is blocked by pain.
All that remains is the red of the blood
Running down the weathered wood of the cross.
It is Friday
And I stand at the foot of the cross.
I reach out and touch the raised grain of the wood.
It is rough against my fingertips.
The pong of unwashed wool and bodies crowds my nose.
I smell fear, pain, death. I taste it at the back of my throat.
I hear the labored breathing from the cross.
Death is near.
It is Friday
And I stand at the foot of the cross.
Remember Him!
Remember Him as the silver cord is severed, as the golden bowl is broken.
Remember Him as the pitcher is shattered at the spring and the wheel broken at the well.
Remember Him as the dust returns to the ground it came from and His spirit returns to the God who gave it.
It is Friday
And I stand at the foot of the cross.
It’s Friday, but Sunday’s Coming
It’s Friday. Jesus is praying. Peter’s asleep.
Judas is betraying. But Sunday’s coming.
It’s Friday. Pilate is struggling. The council is conspiring. The crowd is vilifying. They don’t even know that Sunday’s coming.
It’s Friday. The disciples are running like a sheep without a shepherd. Mary’s crying. Peter is denying.
But they don’t know that’s Sunday’s a coming.
It’s Friday. The Romans beat my Jesus. They robe him in scarlet. They crown him with thorns.
But they don’t know that Sunday’s coming.
It’s Friday. See Jesus walking to Calvary. His blood dripping. His body stumbling and His spirit’s burdened.
But you see it’s only Friday. Sunday’s coming.
It’s Friday. The world’s winning.
People are sinning and evil’s grinning.
It’s Friday. The soldier’s nailed my Savior’s hands to the cross. They nailed my Savior’s feet to the cross.
And then they raise him up next to criminals.
It’s Friday, but let me tell you something. Sunday’s coming.
It’s Friday. The disciples are questioning. What has happened to their king? And the Pharisees are celebrating that their scheming has been achieved. But they don’t know, it’s only Friday and Sunday’s a coming.
It’s Friday. He’s hanging on the cross, feeling forsaken by His Father, left alone and dying. Can nobody save Him?
Oh, it’s Friday, but Sunday’s coming.
It’s Friday. The earth trembles. The sky grows dark.
My king yields His spirit.
It’s Friday. Hope is lost. Death has won. Sin has conquered.
And Satan’s just a laughing.
It’s Friday. Jesus is buried. A soldier stands guard and a rock is rolled into place. But it’s Friday. It is only Friday.
Sunday is a coming.
By Rev. S.M. Lockridge