Silence.
Three bloodstained empty crosses on a hill.
Memories of a torn curtain, dead prophets walking, an earthquake, three hours of darkness--and silence.
How many of the priests still thought this was not the Son of God they'd killed? How many wished they hadn't listened and joined in or incited the jeering crowds shouting "Crucify Him!"
Did the birds sing that Saturday? Did any attend the Sabbath at their synagogues? Did any who went sit in shame? Did any hear the words of Isaiah 53?
Grief everywhere. Tears coursing down bearded and bare cheeks. Children asking, "Why?"
Disciples hiding--and weeping.
His mother, surrounded by the other women, rocking, keening their sorrow with hers. John, feeling helpless, wanting to comfort and needing comfort himself.
Peter, his head in his hands, still wishing he could go back just a few hours and change things.
Thomas, disillusioned, querulous, questioning.
Judas, wishing he'd never been born, despair and death claiming him.
Andrew and Nathaniel and Philip and James and the others, wondering if they'd been wrong after all.
What would they do now?
Alone.
Weeping.
Grieving.
Silence.
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