St Mark’s Anglican Church

He walked on water and calmed the storm, against the norm, peace was born upon the waves by wind were torn by his spoken word, peace be still, his disciples thrill, who is this man?

The Son of God, the one and only, he speaks truth that show the phonies. The rule makers, people breakers, law fakers and temple takers. Pharisee, don’t spare the rod, the wrath of God, a cattle prod to every bod who breaks the law one jot and tittle, they won’t give even a little mercy.

Then they see the Son of God, their hearts gnawed, fingers clawed, words guffawed, he’s a fraud, they hate you see for jealousy, they watch him set the people free. They say, you can’t, he says, I AM, and I am in my Father’s hand, his plans are grand and yours are scam. His ways are broad and yours a fraud. Your lives are but a fake facade.

They hate him, this Son of God, but others hang upon his every word and hope within their hearts he stirred, could God love me, and set me free? Could this man be the Majesty? Is he the One we’ve waited for, to win the war, to fear no more, the tears the years the grinding gears of broken lives and pain and shame and shallow empty fruitless gain. We gain the world, but lose our soul, and then the grave, who can save me from a hellhole named Sheol? Jesus… sees us, knows us, leads us, loves us, came to die and set us free us from our sins.

And so they took him, shook him, booked him, spit him, mocked him, scourged and hooked him on a cross. There he hung for all to see, the Son of all humility, the bleeding King, come down, they cried and we’ll believe, the crucified. He said he could we think he lied, prove yourself, instead he died. It is finished, he is gone that’s what they’d hoped for all along.

Others wept their bitter tears to see their fears, their hopes abort, his years cut short their dreams were thwarted by his contorted bloody dying. They took him down, removed his crown, and Mother Mary put her arms around her Son. Tenderly they carried him, ferried him, washed him, bundled him, buried him in a sealed and sentried tomb.

In the darkness his body lay, disciples scattered, lost their way. Mary’s weeping, time creeping, sorrow bleeping, future is seeping away. On the third day, early in the morning, without warning there was a shaking, stirring, blurring of the laws of death which held it icy breath, its frigid grip began to loosen Stygian fingers from the body in the tomb. The gloom in the room was shattered by a heavenly light, so bright it split the night and broke the yoke of death and hell. Deaths shackles fell, the body swelled with the breath of life and Jesus rose up from the tomb. There was no room in the grave to hold him, fold him, keep him, mould him. ‘He is not here,’ the angel said, why seek the living among the dead? He is alive, my savior lives, and all the future his to give. His the victory over history, the mystery of eternity, the future he holds within his hands.