Holy Saturday: I Who Once Was Blind

They say it is morning.

They say the sun has risen.

They say the dew is fresh upon the olive leaves,

and the birds sing as they always have.

But today the light

tastes hollow.

And the birds—

do they not know

he is gone?

I, who once was blind,

sit now in a deeper kind of darkness.

The world’s true hope

lies silent in the grave.

My hope,

like his body,

is crushed.

The world’s true light

swallowed by death.

He touched me once.

Mud and spit, yes — but more.

More than hands on skin.

He reached into my unformed self

and whispered,

“Let there be light.”

And there was.

And I saw —

not just trees and sky,

but the ache of beauty.

The mystery of meaning behind the veil.

Now unveiled.

I saw him,

and in seeing him,

I saw everything.

But now he is gone.

They took him —

those who could see,

but saw nothing.

And they killed him —

the one who opened the eyes of the blind.

I walked the road to the Skull

just to see if my sight would fail.

It did not.

And I wish it had.

I saw the blood.

The final breath.

Darkness covering the land.

The silence.

The shaking of the earth.

And now…

nothing.

No voice.

No light.

No hand reaching through the veil.

I do not know what to do with this gift of sight.

What is the use of eyes,

if I cannot see him?

So I sit on the edge of the Sabbath,

between the no-longer and the not-yet.

The women weep.

The men hide.

And I—

I keep watch.

Because once he opened my eyes,

and I cannot forget.

I sit.

I see.

I wait.

And somewhere,

deep within the silence,

a whisper stirs —

as I remember

that the Healer from Nazareth

said he would die,

but

did he not also say

he would rise.

I sit,

I see,

I wait.

- Rev’d Jon Swales, 2025