Beforeword: This is Easter weekend, when Christians remember the life, sacrifice, and resurrection of Jesus Christ. The story does not begin at the cross. It begins with a humble birth and unfolds through a life spent teaching, healing, and showing the world another way to love.
This poem traces that journey—from cradle to cross—and the path that led to the hill called Calvary. It is the poetic-story of the Man on the middle cross.
Born to a humble girl named Mary And raised by the carpenter Joseph Laid in a manger in Bethlehem A cradle made from straw instead of gold
A child who puzzled scholars in the temple Speaking truth beyond his years While elders listened in quiet amazement To the wisdom of a boy
He walked dusty roads telling simple stories Seeds, vineyards, lamps, lost coins Turning everyday life into lessons On mercy, faith, and the kingdom of heaven
He sat with fishermen and tax collectors Touched lepers others failed to see He called the poor and the broken “blessed” And made the last feel first
He opened blinded eyes and lifted bent backs Spoke peace to storms and demons alike Where despair had taken root Hope began to breathe again
He overturned tables in sacred halls Questioned the pride of priests and rulers Teaching that love of neighbor Was greater than ritual or rank
And there he hung between two thieves On a hill called Calvary The Man who healed the world now crucified The Man on the middle cross
“Are Easter bunny and Jesus best pals?” And what about the eggs and chocolate and Easter characters?! The queries of this 3-year old girl is eye opening. See her questionings here:
It is true, Easter often brings images of pastel eggs, chocolate bunnies, and playful hunts across green lawns. Fun? Absolutely.
But the heart of Easter runs deeper than sugar and spring décor.
For Christians, Easter is the cornerstone of faith—the celebration of Jesus Christ’s resurrection from the dead.
It’s not about candy-coated traditions, but about conquering sin, defeating death, and offering new life.
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.
See the cross on the hill? Can you hear it— the echo of nails driven deep, the labored breath, the whispered prayers between the pain?
Darkness gathers, pressing in, watching, waiting, smirking.
Satan leans in close, fingers steepled, smile slow. “This time,” he hisses, “This time, the light goes out for good.” And for a silent Saturday, it seemed like he was right.
His breath—stolen. His body—wrapped. The tomb—sealed. The sky—mute. The earth—still. Mary weeps, John trembles, Peter remembers the rooster’s crow and drowns in regret, The disciples scatter like leaves in the wind, Hope lies buried behind a stone.
But wait. Listen. There’s a rumble in the dark. The grave shudders. Stone grinds against stone. The breathless King— inhales.
And just like that— Death loses its sting. The heartbeat of eternity kicks open the door of death.
And the stone— the stone rolls back like a defeated tide. The grave gasps, Satan stumbles, Heaven’s angels sing, “He is not here. He is risen.”
Do you hear it now? The sound of victory echoing through time? The whisper of mercy rewriting history? The roar of love that death could never hold?
Let the mourning turn to dancing. Let the silence break into song. Let the world know— Sunday speaks. And the grave has no reply.
My poem, “Sunday Speaks” which focuses on Jesus’ resurrection was showcased in a dedicated featured post by Dagmara and the team over at Spillwords. I’m truly grateful.
Please drop by Spillwords and give my work some love!
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.
Saturday Was Silent
Saturday was silent— not a holy hush, but a penetrating, deep silence. A silence that reached the portals of heaven, A silence that echoed in the hearts of men, A silence that rang through the corridors of time, touching the cosmos so that: The sun dimmed its fire. The heavenly hosts hushed, as if afraid to speak out of turn. The song of creation paused, mid-note. The universe—watching still— whispered among itself, “Was this the plan? Is this the end of mercy’s reign?”
The disciples dazed— dreams unraveling. They had seen Him— walk on water, raise the dead, breathe peace into storms— and now? He was the one entombed, sealed behind a stone?
Without the shepherd the sheep scattered like dust in the wind, hope gutted, hearts hollow. Peter still tasting his own betrayal, John clutching pain where once beat a thunderous love, Mary— aching, no more place to collect her tears.
The unfallen worlds leaned in, uncertain now. How could the Author be erased from His own page? What was Saturday supposed to be? A pause? A reset? They had seen the war rage, a third of heaven deposed, but Never the Word silenced. Never the Light buried.
Heaven wept. Counted every rotation of an earth trying to orbit without its center.
And beneath— hell threw its victory party. Satan smiled, a grin too wide, too wicked. Death bowed, received its applause. The grave stood tall. They whispered through cracks the cross made in creation: “This is it. Let the curtain fall. Saturday is silent, forever!”
What they did not know— was that silence isn’t always surrender. Sometimes, God holds His breath before He speaks the loudest word.
But, On that Saturday— the world didn’t know that. On that Saturday, it just hurt. They just wept. They just waited, afraid.
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—
What a week … oh what a week it was It opened with praise and thunderous applause And ended in triumph, daring and bold It’s victorious end this poem will unfold
Lowly He enters the town, riding on a colt, It stirs excitement, deafening crowds are all about. “Hosanna!” “Hail the king!” they’re all shouting, Along the path their cloaks and palm leaves are laying.
He entered the temple, righteous and bold, Overturned tables, scattered their gold! The leaders, enraged, conspired with guile, Determined to end Him, whatever the trial.
They challenged His wisdom, sought to confound, But His parables left them utterly spellbound. Frustrated, they plotted a treacherous plan— An expensive kiss to betray the Son of Man.
See Him now in Bethany, in Simon’s house He’s reclining, When Mary pours expensive oil—in preparation for His anointing. Criticism mounted questioning such a squander, For no one, but her, perceived what lie for Him just o’er yonder.
With His disciples He’s celebrating Last Supper, In the midst sits the betrayer, a mocking kiss he’ll deliver. When at midnight hell awoke to His divinity, He drew it unto Himself to rescue humanity.
Darkness fell as heaven groaned, He faced condemnation, forsaken, alone. The crowd that once shouted: “Hosanna to the king!” Now, in hate, they’re screaming: “Crucify Him!”
Before the court of Pilate He was illegally tried, Though guiltless, sentenced He was, to be crucified. He accepted to die, a thief’s disgrace, To save us all, He took our place.
In Joseph’s tomb, His body lay, Until the dawn of that third day. The stone rolled back—the grave gave way, He rose in power and light that day!
That day—light conquered darkness, faith overcame fear, Love defeated hate, hope triumphed o’er despair. The last week to Easter—ushering in the season, Humanity’s salvation—that’s the heavenly reason.
This poem recalls the sacred story— From cross to crown, from pain to glory. Each step He took—divinely planned, To lift us up with nail-scarred hands.
After-word:EASTER. The Bible (John 18-20) records the triumphant entry of Jesus into the city of Jerusalem. The days following leads us through the anointing by Mary, bribery, plots and schemes, a last supper, an illegal trial leading to His crucifixion, and ends with His resurrection. This is the basis of Christianity—the sacrifice of Jesus ushered in the reNEWed Covenant God promised. Reflecting on these days leading up to His crucifixion gives us a peek into the heart of our Savior at intently close proximity. His SO love for us is manifested in every act and every step toward the cross, in His every breath—up to the last—that was breathed again for us at His resurrection.
2024 All rights reserved
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Wishing all in the WordPress family who celebrate Easter a blessed resurrection Sunday.
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It’s early Sunday morning. “Hell” and “Death” are pacing back and forth, restlessly monitoring the tomb that previously belonged to Joseph of Arimathea, but now entombs the body of Jesus Christ. Nervously, they had watched for signs throughout Friday night—nothing happened. Then the Sabbath drew on and … nothing. As the Sabbath wore on, their confidence grew, for still nothing happened. All throughout Saturday night they watched and listened … nothing happened. Saturday was silent. But, early Sunday morning, just at the dawning of the day, a sound was heard. It was only audible to someone on the watch—“someone” like Hell and “someone” like Death.
What is that I hear? Death, I thought you said you had Him?
Well, of course I have Him, I even have the key!
Don’t you mean “our key”, the key of hell and death?
Listen! It’s faint now, but with each beat it’s steadily rising I’m absolutely sure, I can hear it now, His heartbeat is returning Whatever we do, He must not leave that tomb For if He does, forever our fate will be doomed
That can’t be, I was there last Friday eve I waited ‘til He hung His head surrendering to me I didn’t leave His side till the guarantee that He was mine I saw His Father’s confirmation in the earth and in the sky
I thought He would have fought me, like so many others before But, it’s as if He took His life and laid it at my door I wanted Him to struggle against my stranglehold on Him But, He acted more like a victor, accepting the ultimate penalty for humanity’s sin
Oh yes, it was magnificent that moment when I heard his farewell cry: Father … my Father … Your only Son You will deny?” Finally, after waiting and plotting this sweet life-wrenching revenge Lifeless—suspended between heaven and my hell—hung the One who was my challenge
Be silent Death! No more time to reminisce This man … the Christ … He is our nemesis! No time to think of what could be or what we didn’t do His life is returning, heartbeats reverberating from the tomb
Hurry your “evilness”, back to the tomb of the Nazarene! He must not resurrect for He will take away our key Together we rule this earth, this is our domain Who is this man to think we’d allow Him to live again?
As if on cue, Gabriel—heaven’s Archangel—stands before Hell and Death, garbed in the majesty of heaven. Staring them squarely in the eyes and with the adoration of the heavenly hosts embodied within him, exclaimed as like a song:
Who is this man?! He is the only Son of God, begotten from the world’s foundation He is the Rock of Ages on which will be your eternal destruction He is the Conquering Lion, Jesus Christ, humanity’s redemption He is the Good Shepherd, in Him there is no consternation He is the First the Last, the Last the First, in Him there is continuation He is the Beginning and the End, the Way and the Resurrection He is Elohim. Shalom. Jireh. Rapha. Raah. He is El-Shaddai. Adonai. Nissi. Rohi. Jah.
And with a voice penetrating the hollow of the tomb, Gabriel shouts the Father’s command:
Jesus! Arise! Stand up! Come forth! Your Father calls You home!
But Hell was not ready to concede. He positioned himself before the tomb and beckoned Death to join him.
This cannot be, only I have the key The key to hell and death and I will not concede to thee Death, bind Him closer, hold Him, don’t you dare let Him leave He, and all humanity, must surrender and worship the god in me
While Hell and Death held on to the last shreds of their short-lived victory, Jesus adhered to His Father’s call—He unwrapped the shroud and stepped out the tomb as the Conquering Lion of the Tribe of Judah. And in a voice clear, majestic and triumphant proclaimed:
Oh Death, where is your sting, and Hell your victory? Did you really think My Father would allow you to conquer Me? Now recognize I am He—He who has the master key Through my life, you’re both condemned for all eternity
Did you not hear, when it was declared—I am the Way, the Life? My life I gave to save the world from sin’s dreadful strife? Did you not hear when Gabriel proclaimed My Father called me home? I’m heaven-bound to rule with Him, at the right hand of His throne
And looking down through the portals of time to you and I, Jesus exclaimed:
Dear children of mine, don’t despair even in the darkest night At the break of dawn I’ll come again, take you on a cosmic flight For I am He who was dead and now I’m alive forevermore Hell and Death will be devoured in the fire I have in store
So, Death where is your sting and Hell your victory? I’m on my way to Heaven and I AM the MASTER KEY!
2023 All rights reserved
Like what you see? To never miss a post click HERE👈 to subscribe & follow the blog. I love hearing from you, so remember to “like” & comment. For more content start HERE👈
A collection of writing by Dominic Riccitello — intimate conversations, personal essays, and poetic reflections on relationships, loss, and self-discovery.
Poems & More 