Oh, Lord Jesus, This is a Holy Saturday prayer-- remembering the silent Saturday that your body lay in a tomb, guarded by soldiers, celebrated by your enemies. While your friends and followers mourned, shocked and sickened with grief that somehow your enemies killed you . And you let them. You let them betray you, lie about you, taunt you, torture you, and kill you. How often I am like your disciples from long ago-- I sit grieving, despairing, questioning, pleading, raging , shaking in fear , sobbing in solitude, hiding in shame because I think you've left me because you're silent. What a tangle of complex emotions we feel when we think you can't hear us-- when you're not here-- when we act like you're as shocked and traumatized by the world as we are. How agonizing was it to feel the sins of the whole world? To succumb to death, when you have always existed? To offer yourself to every single human being, whom you created in your image, knowing each of us, even
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