There are two kinds of silence.
There is the beautiful kind...the whisper before the storm erupts, the wordless moments shared between two friends, the elegant emptiness of the night sky.
And then there is the heavy silence.
The silence that screams of loneliness, fear, desolation, and unspeakable sorrow and regret.
This is the most frightening sound of all to me.
And it was in this echoing silence in which the disciples lay.
Barely sleeping, barely eating.
Locked away in the upper room of an unknown house, huddled in tear-stained masses as their terrified minds replayed the events of the previous day.
The Man whom they had followed...the One in whom they had placed their faith, trust, and their entire existence...
...dragged away, beaten to an unrecognizable pile of blood and bruises, and then hung upon a splintered cross to gasp out His final breaths.
Yeshua -- their Master, their Lord -- was dead.
And they had fled.
The guilt they all must have felt...the regret and sorrow...for only John had stayed at the foot of the cross until the thunder rolled and the rocks broke into pieces.
The silence must have weighed as heavy as the stone that they had rolled over the mouth of the cave in which they had placed the beaten, lifeless body of their Rabbi.
Crushing.
Destructive.
Overbearing.
Wordless weeping, empty despair.
...but this was not the end...
...for in this silence, a mighty war was waging.
The war against Death. The war against Hell. The war against hopelessness.
For after the silence comes the storm...
...and this storm would rock the world.
DEATH
COULD
NOT
HOLD
HIM.
Silence. Broken.
