Here it is, a Good Friday that no one could have envisioned,
no one could have accounted for,
no one could have listened.
no one would have believed that all would just stop,
all would lean in and ask the question why,
all would lean in and feel their hearts just drop.

Here it is, a Good Friday but in hindsight who could have reasoned,
who could have questioned why it was so,
who could said we were entering that season,
who could have crossed that place of earth’s agony,
A walk to the cross humble and quiet,
A walk to the cross with our sins pure savagery.

What a journey, there is a tree I pass every night on my run. Dead, and surrounded by thorns, this old husk of a tree but still standing like a monument.

There is another tree which I have seen, alive with the Spirit, standing proud and guiding the way for all. Look to that tree for He is the river of life. When you see Him, drink.