Sunday will Come
His friends, how they wept on that sabbath of grief,
They looked for their Master to give them relief,
But saw only a hill and a cross that was bare,
The might of a stone, smelling myrrh in the air.
All that He walked with wept tears for their Saviour
Then the earth shook, grieving for its creator.
Wrapped in Shabbat, alone in the quiet
Their minds thinking over their memories in private.
Peter, he thought of hands bleeding and pierced,
The same ones that rescued from waves that were fierce.
The One Christ forgave as He drew in the sand
Remembered the eyes that said “I understand”,
Lazarus, thought about when he had slept -
How Jesus had raised him, and with them had wept
The woman who broke her sweet jar of perfume
And anointed his hair, to prepare for his tomb,
Snatched a breath as she heaved with great sobs on the floor,
The scent still on her hands from a few nights before.
His mother perhaps thought back to the stable,
Her little son’s swaddling clothes lay on the table.
Martha recalled her words once said with boldness,
“I know even now…” whispered in the aloneness.
The woman who touched Jesus’ clothes in the press,
Marvelled - he’d seen, he had touched, he had blessed.
Apostles recalled, walking home through the street,
The dust and the grime he had washed from their feet.
The leper who turned to give thanks when he could,
Knew his Saviour had touched him when no one else would.
The man with the son needing healing relief
Who plead with the saviour “Help mine unbelief”
Now wept for the man he’d known only a time
For his faith - once uncertain- now firm and sublime.
So many lives touched by this one single man.
Many hearts broke by this part in the plan.
And their grief howled within them, for all of that night
Stealing the peace and robbing the light -
Of their life that had once glowed with joy and great hope
Now doubtful and dark, how would they cope?
What we now understand, on this road to becoming,
That they did not, is that Sunday is coming.
That the smell and the sound of a spring that is dawning
Represents hope and that first easter morning.
When Mary of Magdala, thought they had taken
Her precious Jesus, she wept and was shaken
But one word from Him as He called her by name
Spoke of hope, resurrection and a Sunday that came.
So, the Saturday nights that I struggle to be
Mean Sunday is coming, returning is He.
The pattern He showed us that easter time,
Means Sunday will come for us all by design-
Not just our bodies, returning anew,
Not just your loved ones united with you -
But that hardships will end, the darkness, the sorrow,
That light will return, there will be a tomorrow.
Because of this Jesus who died for me,
Sunday will come, And we will be free.