saturday
a day, laid out to flay and scandalize,
reserved for a more macabre affair
some spikes, some wood,
some dereliction of hope, one cosmic corpse
and in these longest of all hours
lay light itself
without so much as a yawn
–
the skies, now silent and spent
the skies, now silent and spent
review their own sorry past
for all hope has fled
replaced by the wordless song
of a dead friend
Painting by Wayne Haag
so now it comes to this
a day, laid out to flay and scandalize
night reserved for a more macabre affair
some spikes, some wood,
some dereliction of hope, one cosmic corpse
and in these longest of hours
lay light itself
without so much as a yawn
Holy Saturday. A day of inexpressible anguish and loss. Far too often, contemporary Christianity seeks to gloss over this day in a mad rush to the Alleluias of Easter. This is unfortunate and weak theology. There is no resurrection without a tomb. There is no tomb without death. In Jesus’ case, an ignominious death. Unceremonial. Reprehensible.
If ever there was a poem more suited to the dark hopelessness of this day it is the famous “Funeral Blues” by W. H. Auden.
Read. Sit. Ponder. Enter. Weep. Repeat. 
If we are made in God’s image and God sings, then we should be singing, too.
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