Did the sun dawn dimmer that day? 

Did it strain all Saturday to illuminate the earth? 

Did people all over wake and wonder 

why its rays were gray instead of gold?

We’re not told, 

but it would be no surprise.

Because the day before 

the Light of the World 

had gone out. 

They crucified the Lord of Glory. 

His life, 

the Light, 

was extinguished.

And though he knew, 

and his Father knew, 

what Sunday morning would bring, 

the world did not.

So we can well imagine creation grieving 

along with those who had just lost Jesus —

their Friend, 

their Teacher, 

their Hope —

the sun struggling to shine, 

the Source of light snuffed out; 

the voices of roaring waves muted and rushing streams mournful,

sadly repeating the joyless sound; 

the mountains of the earth cowering, shrinking, lost, 

no longer hearing the Word which raised them up;

the birds of all forests silenced, 

with no gladness left to inspire their songs; 

and the heavens hushed, 

failing to tell, for once, the glory of God.

Perceived or not — 

sensed, seen, heard, felt or not — 

the universe was different. 

Saturday was not like Friday, 

or Thursday, 

or any day that had come before.

The unthinkable had happened, 

because God sent his Son

to save the unworthy. 

He worked. 

He suffered. 

He bled. 

He cried out. 

And on Calvary’s cross he died. 

He finished what he came for. 

He paid the price

of every sinner’s every sin.

And they laid him in a tomb. 

And sealed it with a stone. 

And went home to mourn.

While Creation waited, 

at its Creator’s command. 

This darkened day would pass.

Sunday was coming.

The sun would dawn with greater glory. 

The Light would break forth. 

The tomb would open, empty of its occupant.

Because he is not there. 

He has risen. 

The Son has returned.

Death is swallowed up in victory. 

So mourning ceases

when morning comes. 

Sinners rejoice. 



And all Creation sings anew. 

Christ is risen. 

He is risen indeed.