The great S. M. Lockridge immortalized the title I used. I have heard his message countless times. His title serves as the backdrop of my midnight meditation on this, the greatest holy day of Christendom. I pray it blesses you.
I can tell you that it’s Friday, but Sunday’s a
comin’! That tomb sat cool and stuffy with the mustiness of death. No light
shines into it. A stone covers the entrance. Outside, bored soldiers of the
royal Roman guard stand watch. And time crawls for them. Because it’s Friday.
But Sunday’s a comin’.
Friday gets old and limps away. Grown men who swore to
follow Jesus to the death cower somewhere in the corner of a room. To them,
time has reversed. They replay their solemn promise to stand by Jesus, no
matter what. Their shame and their tears enshroud their faces.
Two are missing. One hanged himself once Satan was finished with him. He was a
son of perdition. Soon, his body will fall off his tree—a tree from which no
one took him down. He is forever cursed. Sunday never comes for this one.
No, this son of perdition will see across a fixed gulf into the eyes of
the One he betrayed.
That other, the brash, bold, brawny fisherman was sifted by Satan, too. And he
has drunk his bitter tears ever since the night he denied Jesus. He is
inconsolable. He cannot but relive his denials again and again. But it’s
Friday, it’s only Friday.
Saturday carries the same drudgery outside as the two days before it. Guards
curse the man in the tomb for being such a bother. They mock the scared Jews
who begged for a guard. They rail at their centurion for choosing them. They
watch the sun move, waiting for their shift to end. But Sunday’s a comin’.
Daylight begins to creep up in the east. But wait, that light is too bright for
this time of the day. And who are these men who glow brighter than the light?
And who is this One who stands before them in a glory even brighter than the
men? As one, the men—64 by some accounts—fall to their faces, trembling,
quaking, crying, and fainting of fear. With barely a move of the hands, the two
men roll away the stone. And there sits an empty grave. The great and might
Roman guards run for their lives. This is no place for them.
It’s Sunday, now. And time has begun to move to a different clock. You can almost
hear a song. Is that someone humming, “Victory is mine! Victory is mine!”
A band of women arrive, fearing what they may find. They came to commemorate
death. To throw on more spices and try to slow it down. But they find an open
tomb, empty grave clothes, and two men who marvel that they seek the living
among the dead. Some run away, excited and confused. One stays back.
He calls out and she begs to know what happened to the body. He calls her name.
A single word.
Mary.
Her heart leaps at the voice of the One who said, “My
sheep hear my voice, and they know me.”
Mary.
Jesus the crucified stands before her as Jesus the glorified. He tells Mary to
go back and tell the others. And be sure to tell Peter. Because for Peter, the
small rock of a man, Sunday has come, too.
Oh, I see the time. It’s Friday. But Sunday’s a comin’!
