#Holy Saturday
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Good Friday is a difficult day for Christians. Although we know it's not the end of the story we mourn the pain, suffering and death of Jesus on the Cross. ✝️
Holy Saturday is the final day of Holy Week (between Good Friday and Easter Sunday). It is traditionally a day of quiet contemplation and prayer, as Christians wait and prepare for the triumphant Resurrection of our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ. 🙌
This day commemorates the “Harrowing of Hell”, as Jesus Christ's body lay in the tomb.
But the story is not over. Tomorrow will soon be here!
Have a Blessed Holy Saturday, wherever you are. Amen! ✝️ 🙏🕊️ 🙌
#holy saturday#easter#crucifixion#resurrection#the resurrection of jesus#bible#christian blog#god#belief in god#faith in god#jesus#belief in jesus#faith in jesus#encouragement#keep the faith#make him known
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Time for the busiest but most fun week of my life lol
#christian#holy week#palm sunday#maundy thursday#good friday#holy saturday#easter sunday#i wish all a very meme#i wish all meme
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The Harrowing of Hell. Sculpture (alabaster with gilding) by an unknown English artist active in the 15th century. Now in the Honolulu Museum of Art.
#Harrowing of Hell#Holy Saturday#Holy Week#liturgical calendar#liturgical year#art#art history#sculpture#Middle Ages#medieval#medieval art#religious art#Christian art#Christianity#Catholicism#English art#15th century art#alabaster#Honolulu Museum of Art
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“For as Jonah was three days and three nights in the belly of a huge fish,
so the Son of Man will be three days and three nights in the heart of the earth.”
~Matthew 12:40
(Art by Gustave Dore)
#Scriptures#Bible#Lord Jesus Christ#Holy Saturday#Christian art#Gustave Dore#Harrowing of hell#descent into hell#savior#redeemer#God#Son of Man
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The Garden - A Holy Saturday Story
A night wind rustles through the garden. Acacius shifts his feet, eyes following the bounce of a tree branch, though no night creature disturbs it. The sky is empty of clouds, leaving the moon silver and naked. The faint blush of dawn touches the horizon. Acacius feels his back touch the stone behind him and he straightens himself.
“Have you noticed,” he says sideways to Longinus—who alone remains awake while the other two in their guard sleep, rotations completed—“that you can’t hear any insects?”
Longinus doesn’t respond. When Acacius turns his head, he sees the man’s face is set, eyes unfocused. He’s on his back, one hand behind his head, the other on his belly, calloused fingers curled. His thumb taps an unsteady rhythm.
“Longinus,” Acacius says, and the man finally looks over, though for a moment only.
“Hercules died,” he says.
“…Hercules.”
“He was a demigod. He died. So, the sons of gods can die.”
Acacius’ grip tightens on his spear. “You’re speaking of the Nazarene.”
“Who else could I speak of?”
It’s not a biting retort, but an earnest one. Longinus has not spoken since they left Golgotha. Now, his voice is quiet, gruff. Uneasy. The brush rustles, and Acacius’ head snaps towards it. Longinus doesn’t flinch. His eyes remain fixed upwards.
“Are his followers really stupid enough to try stealing the body?” Acacius asks when he’s certain there’s no one in the garden.
“Does their god have sons?” Longinus doesn’t seem to have heard the question. Or, he’s heard and ignored it, continuing his own thoughts. “He must. All gods do. His mother must be a great woman.”
“He’s not a demigod,” Acacius says, a sigh held behind his teeth. “And we saw his mother. She was plain. So was he. Just a man.”
“He wasn’t just a man.”
“Why not?”
Longinus’ thumb taps on the curve of his bottom rib. “You saw what I did.”
“I saw a man die on a cross.”
“And the earth shake at his death.”
“Earthquakes happen.”
“Not like this.”
“If you are so certain,” Acacius says, “perhaps you should make an offering to appease his father. The lightning could strike you any moment now. Oh yes, look, here it comes.” He lifts a hand to the clear sky above.
Longinus’ jaw shifts. He pushes himself up on his elbows so he can properly see his fellow legionnaire. There is still blood on his tunic, spattered against him by the wind when he thrust his spear through flesh. “Be careful what you mock.”
“I mock nothing. I mock no one. Is their god so powerful? Hm? He does nothing for them while Rome rules. He sends only rain while his ‘son’ hangs on a cross.” Acacius snorts and readjusts his stance. “They have one god, and he has forgotten them.”
“You’re a fool,” Longinus tells him. “Even Petronius recognized him for what he was.”
“The centurion is superstitious.”
“And you aren’t?”
“We did our duty.” Acacius is growing uneasy. Something rustles again in the brush. “So he was unusual. So, then, what? It changes nothing.”
“He prayed for our forgiveness.”
“Then he was sentimental.”
Longinus mutters a crude retort and lies down again. Acacius smiles thinly. The Nazarene had disturbed him, with his piercing eyes and silence under their whip, though he won’t admit it. The man’s eyes had been open when they pulled him down from the cross. Acacius had shut them to hide from them.
“If he truly was the son of a god,” Acacius says, after the silence has stretched out like a shadow and grown heavy, “then we’d be the ones who killed him.”
“Yes,” Longinus says quietly.
There is a warm wind stirring the trees like a breath. The earth is otherwise still around them. For hours, it has been still, as if creation is holding its breath, and just now, it has let it out again, sending puffs against Acacius’ skin and raising the soft hairs. The other two guards stir in their sleep. Longinus sits suddenly upright.
“Something is here,” he says, hand on his sword. He’s up before his words are out, kicking the others so they wake. The dawn makes itself known. The wind rises quickly. Clear is the sky, but the moon trembles as if afraid, hiding its face. A shaking begins, deeper than stone, making the trees shudder and groan, causing the roots to untwist themselves from the ground. Caius, who had laid his head on the Nazarene’s tunic, which he had won, has gone pale. He clings to his sword and shouts into the wind. His words are lost.
A man—no, it is not a man, though it is dressed in the white robes of one—comes across the grass, silent in its steps. When Acacius looks at it, terror seizes him. It’s a flash of terror, bright and terrible, illuminating all within himself that he has tried to hide. This is death! he thinks. This is death! His legs are limp beneath him. His face is crushed against the ground.
The man who is not a man places its hand on the stone. The wax seal melts away. Though the soldiers had strained themselves closing the tomb, the stone is pushed away with one hand, as easily as a boy might pick up a pebble and toss it away. It lands on its side, though it makes no sound. The being sits on it.
When Acacius comes to his right mind again, he is on his belly. His cheek is damp with dew. With his head turned sideways, he can see, two paces from him, Longinus, who is prostrate on his belly also, arms bent at the elbows so that his hands cover his head. He is shaking. Acacius hears him speaking, though it is more a babble than intelligible speech, the words forced from his lungs as he weeps.
Mercy, Acacius realizes. He begs for mercy.
There is still a terror in his own self when he raises his head to see the tomb. The being is gone. The tomb is open, stone cast aside, seal destroyed. Slowly, Acacius turns his head from side to side. The garden has come alive. In the new light, green has unfurled itself splendidly, trees putting forth their fruits and flowers like offerings so their fragrance fills the air. He sees fruit he does not know, nor has ever tasted. In the dipped branch of an olive tree, a grey dove sits.
His sword is gone. When did he drop it? He lifts himself and looks for the others, who are sprawled on the ground like dead men, though they breathe. He should check them. He should look for wounds. But something draws him towards the tomb, until he’s at the dark mouth of it, leaving the others behind, breathing in the cool, damp air.
The tomb is empty.
“My gods,” he whispers, and he is terrified. He takes a step back, then another, turning from the empty tomb and the white linen cloths folded neatly where the body should be. His sandal catches on a root. He sprawls. The ground strips the skin from his knees. Blood rolls down his right calf as he limps forward.
Father, forgive them, had said the Nazarene, with a tongue swollen from thirst.
“Run,” he tells Longinus hoarsely, grabbing the back of his tunic and hauling him upright. The others rise too. Their swords are abandoned. The Nazarene’s red garment lies crumpled on the ground. In the tomb, the graveclothes are folded.
Father, forgive them, the man had prayed.
They know not what they do.
Acacius falls again, knocking the breath from himself. No one stops. The other three run ahead, fleeing the emptiness of the tomb, and though he gasps after them, they do not hear.
There is no strength left in his limbs. As if gripped by fever, he trembles. Every story he has heard of the wrath of the gods comes to him here, crouched in the dust, made as low as beasts, while some great and holy fear passes over him. He covers his head as Longinus had done and begs for mercy.
Son of a god I do not know, he pleads, have mercy on me. Have mercy on me.
A hand touches his shoulder.
Peace, says a voice he has heard before. Be still.
Immediately, the trembling leaves him. The terror that had overshadowed him passes on, leaving him be, and he is alone in the dust, alone, breathing. A dove coos. When he opens his eyes, he sees it on the path ahead, feathers ruffling. His eyes follow it when it takes flight.
The tomb is empty. The seal is broken, and the Nazarene is gone. At last, the world has thrown off its silence, and it sings around him, crying out while he stands mute. For a moment, he is still, seeking the source of their song. From where does it come? He cannot discern it. He abandons the stillness and presses on.
It is only when he rejoins the others that he finds his skinned knees made whole.
#not art#holy saturday#triuduum#holy week reflection#last year I wrote about Mary and John#this year I wanted to try something a bit different#ended up doing a bunch of research for it when I wrote it tonight#learned a lot about roman military oaths and names and such#learned about pigeons/doves#even learned about what causes a person to have their eyes open after death#writing#anyway#happy holy week
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#catholic#catholicism#roman catholic#catholic church#holy week#holy thursday#good friday#holy saturday#easter sunday
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Wielka Sobota w Modlnicy (1937).
#Polska#II RP#Modlnica#1937#lata 30#Wielkanoc#Wielka Sobota#Poland#1930s#Second Polish Republic#Easter#Holy Saturday#old photo
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I didn't get a chance to post this on Holy Saturday, but I keep thinking about and giggling so I'm posting it now
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Friend, God bless your Holy Saturday, as we await the Resurrection. Amen. 🙏
#holy saturday#the resurrection#bible#christian blog#god#belief in god#faith in god#jesus#belief in jesus#faith in jesus#easter#encouragement#keep the faith#make him known
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Exult, let them exult, the hosts of heaven,
exult, let Angel ministers of God exult,
let the trumpet of salvation
sound aloud our mighty King's triumph!
Be glad, let earth be glad, as glory floods her,
ablaze with light from her eternal King,
let all corners of the earth be glad,
knowing an end to gloom and darkness.
This is the night,
when once you led our forebears, Israel's children,
from slavery in Egypt
and made them pass dry-shod through the Red Sea.
This is the night
that with a pillar of fire
banished the darkness of sin.
This is the night
that even now, throughout the world,
sets Christian believers apart from worldly vices
and from the gloom of sin,
leading them to grace
and joining them to his holy ones.
This is the night,
when Christ broke the prison-bars of death
and rose victorious from the underworld.
Our birth would have been no gain,
had we not been redeemed.
O wonder of your humble care for us!
O love, O charity beyond all telling,
to ransom a slave you gave away your Son!
O truly necessary sin of Adam,
destroyed completely by the Death of Christ!
O happy fault
that earned so great, so glorious a Redeemer!
O truly blessed night,
worthy alone to know the time and hour
when Christ rose from the underworld!
This is the night
of which it is written:
The night shall be as bright as day,
dazzling is the night for me,
and full of gladness.
But now we know the praises of this pillar,
which glowing fire ignites for God's honor,
a fire into many flames divided,
yet never dimmed by sharing of its light,
for it is fed by melting wax,
drawn out by mother bees
to build a torch so precious.
O truly blessed night,
when things of heaven are wed to those of earth,
and divine to the human.
Therefore, O Lord,
we pray you that this candle,
hallowed to the honor of your name,
may persevere undimmed,
to overcome the darkness of this night.
Receive it as a pleasing fragrance,
and let it mingle with the lights of heaven.
May this flame be found still burning
by the Morning Star:
the one Morning Star who never sets,
Christ your Son,
who, coming back from death's domain,
has shed his peaceful light on humanity,
and lives and reigns for ever and ever.
(my favourite parts the Exsultet)
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Harrowing of Hell from the Winchester Psalter, 12th centry
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This is my story.
This was always my story.
Holy Saturday - Harrowing of Hell
#jesus christ#jesus of nazareth#judas iscariot#judas of kerioth#judas comic#jesus x judas#judas x jesus#jedas#chriscariot#biblical art#holy saturday
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