A Poem for Holy Saturday

Holy Saturday is a strange day in the church calendar. There is really no Scripture that applies; the Gospels are silent on this day. It was a day of rest, a day of fasting, a day of remembrance. And so it should be. Christian tradition says that Jesus descended into hell on this day, when Christ victorious emptied hell of those who had been waiting salvation. Whatever you believe about this day, it is one that must be approached soberly. We are not yet at the triumphalism of Easter. The image most indelible for me on this day is that of the tomb. The real, rock structure that housed the murdered God. Today's poem is George Herbert's "Sepulchre." 

O Blessed bodie!  Whither art thou thrown?
No lodging for thee, but a cold hard stone?
So many hearts on earth, and yet not one
                                                Receive thee?

Sure there is room within our hearts good store;
For they can lodge transgressions by the score:
Thousands of toyes dwell there, yet out of doore
                                                They leave thee.

But that which shews them large, shews them unfit.
What ever sinne did this pure rock commit,
Which holds thee now?  Who hath indited it
                                                Of murder?

Where our hard hearts have took up stones to braine thee,
And missing this, most falsly did arraigne thee;
Onely these stones in quiet entertain thee,
                                                And order.

And as of old the Law by heav’nly art
Was writ in stone; so thou, which also art
The letter of the word, find’st no fit heart 
                                                To hold thee.

Yet do we still persist as we began,
And so should perish, but that nothing can, 
Though it be cold, hard, foul, from loving man
                                                Withhold thee.

Again, I will keep the commentary brief and mostly trust the poem to speak for itself. The poem I have chosen for tomorrow's Easter post is similar to this in its focus on the hard physicality of the event. Herbert is astonished here at the ease with which we discarded Christ, throwing him into a "cold hard stone." Our hearts are, too, like the stone that entombed our murdered Lord. The miraculous fact, though, is that in the same way the cold hard stone in which Christ was laid and which was rolled across the entrance to his tomb proved incapable of preventing his triumph over death, so our own hard hearts are capable of softening. Not because we are good, but because nothing can withhold the love of Christ from turning the heart of stone into a heart of flesh. 

As we sit in the darkness and the waiting of this day, let's not miss this fact. The tomb was real, the rock was heavy and immovable, yet it rolled away at the merest whisper of the being who spoke it into existence. It recognized his voice. May we hear his voice as well. May the heavy and immovable rock covering our hearts be moved aside at a glance.