LOVE died on Friday.
On a cross atop a hill outside of Jerusalem … Love died on Friday.
The spikes … driven through his hands and feet;
the crown of thorns … pushed deep into his brow;
the soldier’s sword piercing his side;
Love died on Friday.
While God turned his face away so as not to look upon the sin LOVE bore;
while his followers ran in fear to hide their faces from LOVE’s foes;
while the women in his life wept at the foot of his cross—
Love died that day. All … alone.
Suspended between heaven and earth. All … alone.
Abandoned by those he called friends. All … alone.
Scorned by those who feared him. All … alone.
Love died that day.
And was buried. In a cold, dark tomb they buried Love. A heavy rock was rolled in place to lock him in … and to keep all others out. Roman soldiers guarded the place where LOVE lay. His enemies were determined this would be the final chapter to his story. They had written the last page … penned the last paragraph …composed the last sentence … and at its bottom they scrolled in big bold letters the last words: THE … END!
That was Friday!