Down in a garden in a rich man’s tomb,
Lies a man condemned to die;
Wrapped hurriedly in linen cloth
As the Sabbath eve drew nigh.
Most friends had long forsaken him,
But a devoted few stayed true,
Risking their reputations,
To bury a despised King of Jews.
Their tears fell bitter in the shadowed crypt,
On the newly hewed out stone,
For the beloved friend they’d lost.
For cherished hopes now gone.
Darkness falls across the land,
As grief-stricken they leave,
The haunting scent of aloe and myrrh,
Wafts through the olive trees.
Up in the city, along the streets,
Quiet rest of Sabbath reigns,
As still as His body, bruised and pierced,
Bound by death’s dark chains.
But the fans of palm are whispering,
Along the garden path that winds,
Echoes of hosannas sung,
More than memories on their minds.
“Wait and see,” they seem to say,
“The story’s not complete,
This One they begged to save now,
Does not lie here in defeat.”
Just as a kernel cannot grow,
‘Til it’s buried in the ground,
The requirement is death,
Before new life will be found.”
“But Jesus replied, “The hour has come for the Son of Man to be glorified. Truly, truly, I tell you, unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a seed; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.” (John 12:23-24)