by Camille Jones

And it was about the sixth hour, and there was a darkness over all the earth until the ninth hour. And the sun was darkened, and the veil of the temple was rent in the midst.

Where were they, when they learned of his death?
The twelve who had followed him
With hearts on fire
Twelve boys not yet men
Who had scattered like frightened sheep
Did they learn under that blackened midday sky-
That he was dead?
Did their hearts stop in their throats?
Did their knees crash to the stone?
Did their wails fill the silence of the streets?
Had they believed - until that moment - that it would not be true?
That he would not die?
Until that moment,
When God turned his face from the Earth
And they knew?

Listen.
As twelve becomes eleven
In a lonely potter’s field.
As John holds a weeping Mary, 
Tears streaming down his youthful cheeks,
As Peter torments himself with guilt,
As they watch the sun darken in the sky
And wonder why they hadn’t stayed
Do they believe in that moment, that all was lost?
That everything, everything is finished?
That all is over?

Listen.
Nothing was over
It had only begun.

The tomb is empty
The stone is rolled away
The seal is broken.
They don’t yet know

Listen.
We reach backwards 
Through time and space
We take their hands and we whisper,
“Nothing is over.
It’s only begun.”

Listen.
In your darkest moment
He reaches towards you
He takes your hand and He whispers,
“Nothing is over.
It’s only begun.”

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Camille Jones is an aspiring writer who lives in Utah.