Beforeword: A poetic meditation on the sacred arc of Holy Week. Each poem will capture the essence of a pivotal day—Good Friday’s deep sacrifice, Holy Saturday’s aching silence, and Resurrection Sunday’s glorious salvation. Together, they invite you into reflection, reverence, and renewed hope. May these poems stir your spirit and draw you closer to the heart of the Easter story.

Friday, The Longest Night

The Via Dolorosa—a path of pain
Through narrow streets, beneath the jeering crowd
He bore the weapon of His demise
Each step a testament to enduring love
The cross, His burden
Our salvation, His aim

This was the hour
The great reckoning
The weight of a world’s sin pressed into His wounds, wrung from His lips a cry that shook eternity:
“Father! My Father! Why have You forsaken me?!

The Innocent condemned
The Creator crushed
The King dethroned
The sky wept
The sun turned its face as if the heavens themselves could not bear to look
The unfallen worlds held their breath—
watching, waiting, as Love was lifted high

Above, the hosts of heaven stirred—
Hands on hilts
Wings poised for flight
Their hearts burned to intervene,
to descend with righteous fury,
to rescue their Lord from mortal anguish
Yet the Father’s silent command restrained
For the cup must be drained,
the sacrifice must be completed

And below,
The serpent coiled at the foot of the cross
Hissing triumph, spitting scorn:
“Look at Him now! Powerless. Forsaken.
Is this your mighty God?”

Pierced hands stretched wide
between judgment and mercy

A gasp.
A groan.
A final breath, torn from a broken body expelled three words of finality—
“It. Is. Finished.”
Words that rolled from time’s beginning
They shuddered the earth,
It quaked
They gripped the temple veil,
It tore
But still, He chose to hang there—
Extended
Silent
Still
Life slipping away

And then—nothing.

The air grew thick with mourning
The heavens dimmed
The earth held its grief
Angels turned their faces,
unsure, uncertain,
for the first time afraid

No voice from heaven.
No chariots of fire.
Just silence.
Just darkness.
Just death.

The body wrapped.
The stone sealed.
The tomb cold.
He laid.

Could this be it?
Was this the end?

And all of creation asked the question that no one dared answer—

Would it all end with Friday?

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In creative solidarity, Dee