by Emily Smith

The veil—separation from our Savior—
torn wide open.
Thread by thread,
shredded.

Top to bottom,
heaven to earth,
God to us.

The Holy of Holies,
now unrestricted,
unreserved,
unrestrained.

Seams splitting apart
as the power of sin shatters.
Our Creator on a cross on a hill—
cutting open the curtain,
crossing the divide.

Fear and fabric fray
as the plans and desires of the wicked
unravel for all eternity.

Of covenant,
we have a new one,
signed in the blood
of a Savior poured out.

His once-and-for-all move
made to rest our broken, weary hearts—
now reconciled to run to our Redeemer,

as He moves out
of the stone temple created by our hands,
and moves in
to the living ones created by His.

Ground crumbles beneath the weight
of that mighty, moving stone,
rolling away from the mouth of the grave
as it now cries praise
to the One it held inside.

The sun rises up, above the horizon,
bright rays piercing the earth
as nails once pierced the palms
of the Son, who now rises up from death—
the Light of the World
abandoning the linens of His crucifixion.

He calls us each by name,
beginning with “Mary;”

addresses each of our doubts,
beginning with “Put your finger here, see my hands;”

and provides for each of our needs,
beginning with “Come and have breakfast.”

Our Jesus,
alive and well—

ruling,
reigning,
redeeming,
reconciling,
and returning—

His blood still speaking
through the wide-open veil.