04/05/2026
The body of Jesus lay cloaked in the dark. Cold. Waxen. Put your ear to his chest. No ba-bum, ba-bum of a pulsating heart. No gentle rise and fall as the lungs filled and emptied. Just a co**se, scarred by whip and nail and thorn. A smiling young mother once swaddled him; now, tear-stained cloths wrap him round about.
He had walked on the water, but was spiked to the wood.
He had touched the l***r, but was nailed to the cross.
He had spoken words of life, but gave a final gasp.
The Messiah was dead.
Then it happened. In a flash, in that dark stone tomb, the body—did you see it?—it twitched. If your hand had been on his, your hair would have stood on end as you felt the warmth of blood run down the veins in his arms, into his hands, through his fingers.
Suddenly, his hand, strong as iron, grips yours.
A sharp intake of breath. His eyelids open. He blinks, once, twice.
And there it is. See it? First, just a hint, a playful movement at the edge of his lips, then a broad and victorious smile spreads across his face.
He sits up. He lifts his hands, palms facing him, to look at the scars. He glances toward his side to see the wound from the Roman spear. He leans forward, gazing down at his feet. There they are, the trophies of redemption, beautifully scarred sermons of love.
He is alive. He stands. He moves.
It is time to vacate his briefly borrowed tomb. He will need it no more. Not now, not ever.
Stand and marvel at him, death’s victor, the grave’s conqueror, who plants his flag of conquest over the grave of every child of God, waving a banner of hope as the winds of time blow us closer and closer to our resurrection day.
It is the day of resurrection, my friend. Join me in mocking death. Rally round the empty tomb to fill the air with “Christ is risen!”
He is risen, indeed. And because of that, nothing will ever be the same.
