Friday

Be still and see the man upon the cross.
Be still and feel the horror of this loss.
The one who said he’d come to save the lost
is gone; the saving ledger shows just cost.

Be still and see his mother at his feet,
bedraggled by the tears of this defeat.
The child she loves, died, beaten by his kin.
Her flesh and blood, hangs, eaten by our sin

Be still and hear the war cry of the world,
as if some victory banner is unfurled.
Where hideous letters flown above his head
say: ‘God of peace fought might; now God is dead.’

Saturday

There is no stillness now, there can be none;
for something…
something is undone.
Silence the birdsong; blot out the sun,
flowers hang your heads, all blooming to shun,
a desperate darkness has surely begun.
There is no stillness now;
there can be none.

Sunday

Be still and see the grave before the dawn,
and see the woman standing, there to mourn.
See morning break her with its cruellest light; 
her Lord is taken, stolen in the night.

Be still and see the garden where she weeps.
Now see the man who asks her who she seeks.
The gardener, she thinks, was he the thief,
come back to taunt her withered heart of grief?

Be still and hear him as he speaks her name
and from that moment, nothing is the same.
For life eternal dwells in every word,
the garden blooms, to orchestras of birds.

And Eden’s song now rises in her heart;
in loss she came, in joy she will depart.
No more the mournful beat of funeral drum,
his death was real, but death…is overcome.