Dark. Tomb dark.

The Light of the world is snuffed out. No city shines on the hill. The nearest hill around is called “Skull-Place,” and it’s marred by the black stains of dried blood.

The sky was deathly quiet yesterday, on that Friday we now call “good.” Eloi, eloi, lema sabachthani? was met with no reply. Now, the ironclad silence has given way to stone sealed night.

The grave: when silence is at its quietest; when darkness is most dense. No closure is more final than that of a sealed up tomb.

There are no embers to stoke. No spark in which to infuse any sort of hope. All former hoping is now exposed as gross naïveté.  Everything must now be reconfigured around those grim perpendicular bars. The cross mauled and pulverized all promises. Dreams flickering with the heat of prophetic urgency are now lightless and smouldering in the smoke of ruin.

He’s gone. Over in that garden lies the disfigured heap of his corpse.

Yes, today is the day when God’s body laid drying in the dust as a corpse.

Shame on you for hoping. Cursed are you who believed. Fools.


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