In the black shadows of the longest night,
when all of love and might seemed turned to naught,
it seemed that even angels dared not speak
and all of light turned weak, caught in darkness.

The voice mute that called forth the dead—and they heard—
that opened the eyes of the blind,
commanded the lame to rise, take up his bed and walk,
the voice that spoke the words of life and echoed among mountains.

Hollowed now the eyes that pierced heart and soul,
divided bone from marrow and revealed deepest thought.
The hands that healed with or without touching,
bound with the thongs of thieves and murderers.

Voices that had cried out hosannas demanded his death.
The breath of those he had fed and comforted burned against him.
All had abandoned him except the one who stayed close enough to watch,
close enough to look at him even as he cursed and swore

he did not know the man!

We have all wept the tears of our own dark betrayals,
all felt the weight of our own deep guilt,
all wilted in the light of infinite love and our own acrid unworthiness,
knowing that we are the scars that pierced his hands, his feet, his side.

And in the black shadows of our longest nights
know that love of such might can never be taken from us,
that we sing a song of redemption which angels cannot speak,
and that even our darkest weakness will one day be born into light.

He has already paid the price,
already conquered the grave,
already defeated death,
already forgiven.

He proved the possibility of our hope,
the substance of our faith,
the expression of our love,
the infiniteness of the grace created for our lives

while we were yet sinners!

H. Arnett
3/30/18