If Thursday was the last normal day, then Saturday is the last hopeless day.
The disciples watched their teacher executed at the hands of the Romans, the Jewish leaders nodding their approval a clean distance away. His followers had forsaken him in his last hour, and they surely feared for their own lives, as well. If they weren’t executed by Rome as traitors, they would be outcasts in the synagogue, exiled by their allegiance to a failed Messiah.
The Hope of ages, the Desire of nations had hung bleeding on the cross and now lay dead in a borrowed grave. They had been so sure that He was the one. Now what?
The men and women who had spent the last few years together gathered, those first minutes awkward with fear, regret, blame. Was it coincidence that Sabbath followed the crucifixion, that the no burdens could be carried, no baggage put away, especially those heavy in the hearts of the dead man’s friends?
The sun will soon set, life must go on, tomorrow will be a new day.
If they only knew . . .
Photo by jasondbay, via Flickr, used with permission under the Creative Commons License.