I knew he was dead.  Everyone else who had been there knew that too.  In response to the Jewish leaders’ request that the bodies not be left up on the Sabbath, Pilate sent soldiers to break the legs of the crucified to hasten their deaths.  But they didn’t bother to break Jesus’ legs because he was already dead.

The other two crucified Jews would probably be hauled to the trash dump in the valley of Gehenna.  But what about Jesus?  How I loved him!—all his followers did.  He needed a proper burial.  I couldn’t do it alone and there were no men around.  Besides, it might be dangerous to step forward and claim his body.  Already there were rumors that Jesus’ disciples were the next target of the ruling council.  There wasn’t time for tears.  I sat down in the shade of a rock to think.

Soon a small group appeared led by two men in richly-ornamented robes.  Members of the Council?  Pharisees?  They approached the cross and began the process of taking down Jesus’ body.  I didn’t know they were believers that Jesus was the Son of God.  They never let on.  I didn’t know they loved my Jesus too.  How carefully they pulled out the nails.  How tenderly they cradled his body as they balanced it to earth, laid it on a stretcher and covered it with a shroud.  How nimbly they walked through the descending dusk to the garden across the way.  I followed.  I had to see.  He was my master.  

Propped a little off the ground in a space amid the lush plantings of the garden lay a long rock, its top flat, its sides chiseled away.  Someone had managed to drag it there near the tombs to ease the labor of preparing a body for burial.  Joseph and Nicodemus carefully placed Jesus’ body on the rock and called for their servants to bring the supplies they were carrying—bundles of linen and jars of spices, so many spices that it took three men to carry them on their backs.  Then Joseph and Nicodemus wrapped Jesus’ body in strips of linen layered with the spices—and they themselves did it, not their servants.  Such humility these embroidered and gilded Pharisees showed.  Had Jesus served them too by washing their feet?  Now they lifted and wrapped, aloe caking under their rings, tears falling into the spices and releasing more fragrance.  Finished.  Night was falling, the Sabbath beginning, but they stood in silence for a minute, these two respected leaders of the Jews.  They had defiled themselves, made themselves unclean, by handling a dead body.  To my astonishment, one and then the other bent to gently kiss the body of my Lord.  Then, with the help of the servants, they laid him in the tomb and struggled together to roll the huge stone across the entrance.  Joseph and Nicodemus placed their hands briefly on each other’s shoulders then walked away.

*****

But Jesus didn’t stay dead.  That’s not possible!  How can a dead body come back to life?  He really was dead, with the marks of death and a deep sword gash in his side where a gush of blood and water poured out.  I saw it!

Yet now the strips of linen are piled empty on the cold stone of the grave.  Jesus spoke to Mary of Magdala in the garden.  Some of his disciples saw angels.  The Roman soldiers guarding the tomb are in trouble.  And Jesus’ mother—well, she can’t stop singing!  

I saw Jesus too.  The blood and wounds from three days ago are but strong scars.  He called me by name.  I fell at his feet and wanted to cry but instead we laughed together.  He is risen from the dead!  He is risen indeed!  “I can hardly believe this is true,” I told Jesus.  He looked at me deeply and smiled.  “I told you, didn’t I?  Now go tell everybody,” he said.  “Blessed are those who have not seen me and yet believe.  I am the resurrection and the life.  Whoever believes in me will never stay dead either but will have everlasting life.  Tell everyone!”

	Low in the grave he lay, Jesus my Savior, waiting the coming day, Jesus my Lord.
	Vainly they watch his bed, Jesus my Savior, vainly they seal the dead, Jesus my Lord.
	Death cannot keep its prey, Jesus my Savior; he tore the bars away, Jesus my Lord!

	Up from the grave he arose, with a mighty triumph o’er his foes!
	He arose a victor from the dark domain, and he lives forever, with his saints to reign.
	He arose!  He arose!  Hallelujah!  Christ arose!
						Robert Lowry, 1874

From Jan, with love in our crucified and risen Savior

(John 19:28-42; John 20:1-18, 29; Matthew 28; John 3:16; John 11:25-26)