A Dark, Dark Sabbath

It is the day after that ordinary man was pinned up on the cross.

The towns have been more silent, the day darker, and we sat in our homes quietly, contemplatively, waiting for the end of the Sabbath. I found myself glancing out the window and breathing many a sigh. Emotionally, I was confused. This man, this man who had done no wrong, was dead. Not only dead, though, but finished. I heard the words myself as I stood there, transfixed by the sight of him, barely breathing on that cross, that cursed cross.

"It is finished."

Never has a phrase haunted me so frightfully. It is finished. It is over. There is nothing else.

I still could not believe it, even as I watched them take down the body from a distance, even as they carried him to a tomb. I knew not where it was, nor did it matter. He was dead. It is finished.

I was almost grateful, though, when he died. After all, he was only a man. It was not as prolonged as these things usually were, though I myself was not a frequent audience for such events. There had been horrid stories of crucifixions lasting days.

Days . . . I could hardly stop myself from thinking again of the tormented expression on that ordinary man's face. Who was he? They claimed he was the Christ, they gave him the title of Messiah, they even went so far as to declare him the Son of God. I knew nothing of it, and I had hoped not to think any further on the matter.

It was evident, however, that this man was possibly more than just a man. But if he were more than a man, my mind questioned cryptically, how is it that a mere crucifixion was able to finish him?

"It is finished."

I bowed my head, intent on concentrating on something else.

It is finished, I repeated to myself. It is finished.