The ancient greyness shifted Suddenly and thinned Like mist upon the moors Before a wind. An old, old prophet lifted A shining face and said: “He will be coming soon. The Son of God is dead; He died this afternoon.”
A murmurous excitement stirred All souls. They wondered if they dreamed— Save one old man who seemed Not even to have heard.
And Moses standing, Hushed them all to ask If any had a welcome song prepared. If not, would David take the task? And if they cared Could not the three young children sing The Benedicite, the canticle of praise They made when God kept them from perishing In the fiery blaze?
A breath of spring surprised them, Stilling Moses’ words. No one could speak, remembering The first fresh flowers, The little singing birds. Still others thought of fields new ploughed Or apple trees All blossom-boughed. Or some, the way a dried bed fills With water Laughing down green hills. The fisherfolk dreamed of the foam On bright blue seas. The one old man who had not stirred Remembered home.
And there He was Splendid as the morning sun and fair As only God is fair. And they, confused with joy, Knelt to adore Seeing that he wore Five crimson stars He never had before. No canticle at all was sung. None toned a psalm, or raised a greeting song. A silent man alone Of all that throng Found tongue— Not any other. Close to His heart When the embrace was done, Old Joseph said, “How is Your Mother, How is Your Mother, Son?”
“We must be mindful of the fact that death is no longer the same as it was before Christ endured it, before he accepted and penetrated it, just as life, being human, is no longer the same as it was before human nature, in Christ, was able to come in contact with - and it truly did - God’s own being. Before, death was just death, separation from the land of the living and, albeit at differing degrees of profundity, something like “hell”, the nocturnal side of living, impenetrable darkness. But now death is also life and when we pass over the glacial solitude of the threshold of death, we always meet once more with him who is life, whose desire is to become the companion of our ultimate solitude and who, in the mortal solitude of his anguish on the Mount of Olives and of his cry on the cross: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”, became a partaker of our solitudes. If a child had to venture out alone through a wood on a dark night, he would be afraid even if he were to be shown a hundred times that there was nothing to fear. He is not afraid of anything specific, to which he could put a name, but in the dark he feels insecure, an orphan, he feels the sinister character of inner existence. Only a human voice could console him; only the hand of a person he loves could banish the anguish, like a bad dream. There is an anguish - the true kind nesting in the profundity of our solitudes - which cannot be overcome by reason but only by the presence of a person who loves us. This anguish, in fact, doesn’t have an object to which we could put a name. It is the terrible expression of our ultimate solitude. Who among us has not felt the awful sensation of this state of abandonment? Who would not hear the blessed, comforting miracle worked in these circumstances by an affectionate word? But wherever there is such solitude as to be inaccessible to the transforming word of love, then that is the place we call hell… .One thing is sure: there will come a night when no word of comfort will penetrate the dark abandon, there will be a door which we must pass though in absolute solitude: the door of death. All this world’s anguish is, in the final analysis, the anguish generated by this solitude. This is why in the Old Testament, the word indicating the kingdom of the dead was identical to the word for hell: shêol. Death, in fact, is absolute solitude. But this solitude which can no longer be illumined by love, which is so profound that love can no longer reach it, is hell.
“Descended into hell” - this confession of Holy Saturday means that Christ passed through the door of solitude, that he descended into the unreachable and insuperable depth of our condition of solitude. This means, however, that also in that extreme night which no word penetrates, when we will all be like children, banished, weeping, there will be a voice that calls to us, a hand that takes our hand and leads us on. Man’s insuperable solitude was overcome from the moment He entered it. Hell was beaten from the moment love entered the region of death and the no man’s land of solitude was inhabited by him. In his profundity, man does not live by bread. In the authenticity of his being he lives by the fact that he is loved and is himself given the faculty to love. From the moment there is the presence of love in death’s sphere, then life penetrates death: life is not taken from your faithful, O Lord, but transformed, the Church prays in its funeral liturgy.
In the final analysis, no one can measure the portent of the words: “descended into hell”. But if at some time it is ours to draw near to the hour of our ultimate solitude, we will be given to understand something of the great clarity of this dark mystery. In the hopeful certainty that when the hour of extreme solitude comes we will not be alone, we can already, now, presage something of what will happen. And in the throes of our protest against the darkness of the death of God we begin to be grateful for the light that comes to us from this same darkness. “
—Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger, “Three Meditations on Holy Saturday: An Anguish of Absence”
“Lord Jesus Christ, in the darkness of death You made a light shine; in the abyss of the deepest solitude the powerful protection of Your love now lives for ever; in the throes of Your concealment we now can sing the hallelujah of the saved. Grant us the humble simplicity of faith, which does not let us stray when You call us in the hours of darkness, of abandonment, when all seems difficult; grant us, at this time when a mortal struggle is being waged around You, light enough that we will not lose You; light enough for us to give to all those who still have need of it. Make the mystery of Your Easter joy shine, like the aurora of the dawn, on these days of ours; grant that we may truly be men of Easter in the midst of history’s Holy Saturday. Grant that in the course of the days of light and dark of this age we may always with happy hearts find ourselves on the pathway to Your future glory. Amen.”
—Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger, “Three Meditations On Holy Saturday”
Something strange is happening—there is a great silence on earth today, a great silence and stillness. The whole earth keeps silence because the King is asleep. The earth trembled and is still because God has fallen asleep in the flesh and he has raised up all who have slept ever since the world began. God has died in the flesh and hell trembles with fear.
Today a heavy silence reigns over all the earth; a silence and a stillness, and not a word is heard. The King Himself is sleeping, the trembling earth is still, our God-made-flesh, though resting, now consummates His will.
He’s gone in search of Adam, our father, His lost sheep; He visits those in darkness and in death’s shadow deep. He’s gone to free from sorrow lost Adam in his bonds, and Eve, with him held captive, who for her freedom longs.
Thus says their true Creator and truest Son of Eve, “I order you, O sleeper, awake from death and live! For I did not create you to lie in Hades’ cell. I am your Resurrection; you dead, arise from hell!
Ave María, dolóribus plena, Crucifíxus tecum: lacrymábilis te in muliéribus, et lacrymábilis fructus ventris tui, Jesus. Sancta María, Mater Crucifíxi: lácrymas impertíre nobis crucifixóribus Fílii tui, nunc et in hora mortis nostræ. Amen.
Dios te salve María, llena eres de dolores; Jesús crucificado está contigo; digna eres de llorada y compadecida entre las mujeres, y digno es de ser llorado y compadecido Jesús, fruto bendito de tu vientre. Santa María, Madre del Crucificado, da lágrimas a nosotros crucificadores de tu Hijo, ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte. Amén.
