Saturday Morning

The Apostles gather the morning after Good Friday.

The tomb is sealed, the light is gone, and we are left to mourn in shade,
His gentle voice now silent lies, beneath the stone His form is laid.
A hush has fallen on the earth, a breathless pause in sacred dread,
Our King of life, untouched by sin, now sleeps among the silent dead.

We lock the doors and dim the lamps; our hearts cold stone, our courage fled,
Ashamed to speak the Name we swore, we count the cost of what He said.
We feared the sword, denied the Light, and fled before the hill grew dim—
Now silence asks what faith remains, when we are far, and not with Him.

No voice from heaven breaks our gloom, no angel stirs the waiting air,
Just silence deep as fishers' graves, and sorrow past what we can share.
The world moves on, yet we remain—alone, ashamed, in shadow cast,
Our Lord, our friend, is gone, is lost, and all our joy is distant past.