Our Master Yahshua

It is twilight, the time between the lights. The edge of the sky fades into violet, and above it hangs a veil of deep blue. Behind both waits a heaven of black, fast approaching, and the second set of lights, the small, dim stars of evening.

In a tomb, a man’s body is set down and left to rot. Three nights drag by. Three mornings come and three long days. Now it is twilight again and his spirit returns to his body. Death flees away like a frightened crow.

Suddenly his eyes flutter open. His nostrils fill with air. His first sharp breath rushes into his chest like a flood of fire. It’s charged with the sweetness of twilight, the cool of the evening, the delicious fragrance of plants growing in a garden. Like a sword, it cuts the strangling noose of lifelessness. Soon every cell in his body is surging with new life. A smile fills his lips and well-being springs up from his guts, up the entire length of his chest, and escapes his parted lips like the beginning of a triumphant cry.

He sits bolt upright, throws off the bloodstained linen. The newborn power of life fills his every movement. It wells up like a fountain as his feet swing down from the rock and touch earth. He is on his feet, standing, walking, springing into the twilight.

Did you see his eyes when they first opened, after his eyelids had flung off the air of the tomb? His first glance pierced upwards through the graying light and the sullen rock around him. It broke out into the violet and blue of the twilight until his sight captured the trembling, unseen universe beyond. He saw triumph. He saw death’s cold limbs shake as if blown in a gale. He saw the fleeing serpent pinned head-down beneath a staff. And the stamp of a heel crushing its head. Little wonder he smiled. Or praised his God. Or went to meet those he loved.

Wouldn’t you?