The Saturday before Easter has long been a strange day for me. It is a day of waiting, a day of expectation this side of the resurrection, and, no doubt, it must have been a day of deep depression and terror for Jesus' disciples on the other side. It's a day in which I often don't feel much.

Maundy Thursday has passed, and we remember the Lord's prayer for his disciples, and for us, and the humble, foot-washing servanthood of our King. We remember the broken bread and poured out wine, and the long goodbye said to disciples who didn't yet understand, who were just beginning to realize that He was going away. We remember teardrops of blood in the garden, prayers offered in submission, sorrow and dreadful anticipation.

Good Friday has passed, with its whips and fists and blood and nails, the tortured dignity of our Lord, standing quietly like a criminal before His horribly sin-twisted creation. Heaven stands, angelic legions trembling, awaiting the command, that never comes, to fall in wrath upon the earth and destroy those who would dare harm the Beloved. Good Friday has passed with its cries of despair, scatterings, earthquakes, darkness, torn flesh and torn veils, and, finally . . . silence and, it would seem, defeat.

And now we wait. This is a dismal day, but at its edges can be seen the faintest glimmerings of a triumphant, almost laughing, holy light.

There in the ground
His body lay
Light of the world by darkness slain . . .