He Is Not Here; For He Is Risen

I have often tried to write a poem about Easter. I have never been able to.

There is so much to the crucifixion and the resurrection. Where would I begin. Would I write about the Garden of Gethsemane, where He prayed, "Not my will, but thine." Would I tell of the betrayal of Judas and the Last Supper. Would my poem tell of Jesus' trial where Pilate found no fault in Him. The suffering from the whipping, the crown of thorns they placed on His head. The sound of the hammering of the nails in His feet and hands as they placed Him on that wooden cross. The thud as the cross was placed in the ground between the two crosses which held the two thieves.

I also think about Mary, the mother of Jesus, standing there watching as her son was crucified. The tears that must have ran down her face  as she stood there helpless. The spear that pierced His side. And the blood that ran down Jesus' feet to the foot of the cross. That precious blood from the lamb of God who was without blemish, but on that day He became sin for us.

Would I tell about the greatest love story ever known. In John 19:30 He said, "It is finished..." No man took his life from Him, He laid it down willingly.

And the tomb where they laid His body, but on that resurrection morning, death could not hold my Saviour or keep Him in the grave.  He rose again that I might have eternal life.

 

"Beyond the Cross is a tomb that is empty

You won’t find Me there anymore

And beyond the tomb is life ever-lasting

And hope forever more."