Holy Week 2026

I shared the first six poems as notes on Substack throughout Holy Week. Here they are in one collection, with a Resurrection Sunday poem and a Bright Monday poem as the conclusion. Thank you so much for reading. 💕

He is risen!

Why will the people who hail You as King, Savior, and Son of David
Be willing to crucify that same Savior, Son, and King
In less than a week?
Today, we shout, “Hosanna! Lord, save us!”
But on Friday, hopes disappointed by the kind of King You are,
We’ll chant, “Crucify Him! Crucify!”
We lay our coats on the ground before Him;
On Friday, we’ll strip His clothes from Him and watch Him bleed.
We wave palm branches in celebration,
But on Friday, we’ll shake fists in scorn.
How frail humanity’s belief and allegiance are!
Yet You came as King, Savior, and Son for us,
Frail and faithless though we be.

Yesterday, we welcomed You as a King, Lord—
Humble and meek, riding on a donkey.
Today? Today we forget You’re a King
Because You’ve come into the faulty temples we’ve built,
Turned out the idols and the filthy desires we’ve clasped to our hearts.
You remind us that Your house is a house of prayer,
Not of money changers and lambs waiting to be slaughtered.
Your humility and gentleness turn to wrath when You see
How we’ve misused Your gifts and misconstrued our faith.
We turn defensive as You point out that we’re fruitless,
Trees leafy, green, and deceitful, because no fruit grows in our hearts.
Yet, in grace, You come and cleanse us, Your temples, anyway,
Filthy and fruitless though we be.

On Sunday, we hailed You as a triumphant King, Lord,
And now You tell us that You’re going to Jerusalem to die.
This isn’t what a King is supposed to do!
We need You to save us—how can You save anyone by dying?
You came as the King of glory, proclaiming Yourself Messiah,
But now You say You must die at the hands of sinners.
We believed in You. We believed that You were the One promised,
The Prince of Peace, whose reign will never end.
But now You say You must die, be buried, and then be resurrected.
Isn’t that the craziest thing of all? We don’t understand, Lord.
Yet You say will be raised to life again.
You say that You will be the ransom for the lost, for us,
Confused and uncomprehending though we be.

Like fools, we made bargains for silver.
Like traitors, we turned on those closest to us.
And the money, when we got it, wasn’t silver at all—
But red with the blood of our betrayed Lord.
Like the lepers, the fools and traitors wander the streets,
Crying out until our souls are broken, “Unclean! Unclean!”
We played the part of the fool and will receive a fool’s reward.
We stabbed our friends in the back
And will die with knives between our ribs.
“Why are you betraying the Son of Man into the hands of sinners?”
He asks it, but He already knows why we turned away.
“You weren’t the King we were looking for,” we mutter
As we leave Him to the soldiers.
Yet, even as we turn our faces and walk away,
Leaving Him to His fate—humiliating torture and agony,
Made worse by the fact that it is a humiliation—
He looks at us, loves us, and goes to His fate willingly.
He goes to His death with the bravery of a King,
Dying for us, traitors and fools though we be.

With gentle hands, He lifts our dirty feet, pours water over them,
And cleanses us from all unrighteousness.
With steady voice, He proclaims that bread and wine are no longer
Grape juice and baked flour, but a sacrament, a new covenant.
Christ reframes the Passover Feast, tells us that something’s going
To change before the night is spent, before the dawn comes.
Like the disciples, we don’t understand what’s happening—
Or what is going to happen on this night.
We rise and follow Him and He leads us to a garden
Shadowed, smelling of earth, filled with night sounds.
With trembling lips, He tells us to watch and wait.
With pain-stretched voice, He begins to pray, pouring out His soul.
Christ reframes the Passover prayers, tells us that something must
Change before the night is spent, before the dawn comes.
We don’t understand what’s happening—so we sleep.
Yet He prays for us, intercedes before the Father for us,
Sinful and sleepy though we be.

We have to look away as they lower Your body from the cross,
Even though it will be our last glimpse of Your face.
The carnage is too awful, the finality too certain—
And Lord, we are afraid to look death in the face.
If You are the Son of God, why are You lying dead on the ground?
Oh, Lord, we do not understand.
We do not understand what this is.
You are the King we were waiting for—we see that now—
But our King was crowned with thorns
And robed in the red of His blood.
This isn’t how the stories go. This isn’t how victories are won.
If You are the Messiah, why are they laying You in a new tomb?
Why did You die a cursed death?
Why didn’t You protest Your capture?
Why did God allow this?
Lord, we don’t understand why You are dead
And we’re afraid—so very afraid—of the future.
Can’t You come back to us, come back alive to us,
Forsaking and faulty though we be?

Waiting—just like You wait in the tomb, lying on cold stone.
Breathing—just like You aren’t.
(How can the Son of God stop breathing in the breath of life?)
Hoping—like You are, perhaps, to be renewed.
(Like You promised You would be).
Afraid—but of course, You aren’t afraid, although the tomb is dark.
(Death has no power over someone who’s already dead.)
My God, why have You forsaken me?
My Lord, why—why after all the promises and the hopes—
Do You lie dead, in a tomb, held fast by a chunk of stone?
My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?
What am I supposed to do now?
(I’m nothing without You, even though I betrayed You.)
What am I supposed to feel?
(The grief is too heavy, like the cross You were forced to bear.)
How can I live?
(I cannot move on, not when my soul is bleeding out like Your side.)
My God, my Lord, why did You come only to die?
You said something about the third day, so I dare to wait and hope,
Because You kept the promises You made to Your disciples,
Blasphemers and betrayers though we be.

We welcomed You as a King and we grieved You as a friend.
We wept, yet we dared to hope, because You made a promise.
And after a grieving Sabbath, we rose to find You risen.
How? How? Lord, we laugh at the sheer wonder of it.
We buried You ourselves, wrapped You in a shroud,
Sealed our hope with a stone too heavy to roll away.
How is this even possible?
“With God, all things are possible,” You told us.
And verily, verily, You spoke the truth.
We buried You, entombed our hope for a kingdom,
Laid our King at rest, enshrouded the Light of the world.
But the darkness didn’t hold You, Lord!
The grave didn’t defeat You!
Instead, the veil is torn—
So, Light shines forth from the Holiest of Holies.
The graves are opened—
So, those who lay dead now walk in newness of life.
The wounds are scars—
Scars which bear witness to what the prophets told us:
“By His stripes, we are healed.”
We buried our Lord, our Teacher, and our Master,
Thinking that we’d buried our hope in the same tomb.
But like our Lord, like our Rabboni, like our King,
Our hope is risen, made new and complete.
Because He died and rose again and has appeared to us,
Doubting and slowly dying though we be.

“Is everything sad going to come untrue?”

Sam Gamgee, The Return of the King

We staggered out of the empty tomb yesterday,
Blinking because saltwater and light made it hard for us to see.
Today, we are still in awe, tripping over our wonder,
Barely able to breathe because of the light.
He appeared to us, bade us touch the wounds which healed us,
Walked among us—full and complete and so very alive.
This is a bright day, for God has truly passed over us.
The blood of the Lamb has covered us.
Behold, the old things are passed away, and new things have come!
Everything has changed—
And it’s almost too good to be true.
But no, it’s too good not to be true,
Because everything sad is coming untrue.
He is risen, and nothing will ever be the same again.
He is risen, and we—broken betrayers though we be—
Are made a part of His glorious kingdom.

If you’re looking for more Resurrection poetry, “Empty Graves” was published on The Wildfire Weekly on Good Friday. 😊 Thank you so much, Penelope Grace Harper!