It was finished,

The last sacrifice was made. 

And the world held its breath. 

A destroyed Temple laid at rest inside of a rich man’s earthen tomb.

A tomb’s entrance was secured by a stone.

A stone was guarded by two wary Romans, 

and the world held its breath.

Did the Pharisees lose sleep, Jesus?

Did they laugh in public at the slain carpenter from Nazareth, 

only to be kept awake at night while cold fear and doubt leached into their bones? 

Did they regret in private what they boasted in public,

like a generation of vipers slithering away to their protective dens?

Did some of them feel the weight of the cross on their conscience and truly know the fear of the Lord?

Could we have been wrong?

They might have asked themselves, 

as they stared up at their dark ceilings.

Though the hard of heart may have dreaded what was to come,

the faithful enthusiastically awaited the raising up of the Temple.

A single day like any other.

A single day of calm and mourning,

Inside of a week of honor, 

betrayal, 

violence,

and sacrifice.

A single day at the end of thousands of years of wars, 

prophecies, 

and covenants. 

A seemingly ordinary day,

Pregnant with tomorrow’s promise that only God could realize.