at Church Street

The breath of the Creator
moved in beauty.

Time collapsed
into stillness.

The moment of Creation
crossed
the moment of Crucifixion.

—

On Good Friday
I entered the quiet chamber—
an invitation
into the Word,
held beneath the high arches
until noon.

—

Languages once rose
in confusion—
Tower of Babel
built higher and higher
on power and gold—

and yet now,
all speech fell broken
before the Cross.

—

A voice had said:

Christ is not absent—
He is there,
crucified in the wounded.

And I walked—
not around,
but into
His wounds.

—

Another voice trembled—
a warning,
a line crossed
where truth becomes danger.

The Passion
was no longer memory.

It walked among us.

—

Ear to ear,
soul to soul,
we moved
toward the altar—

travelers
gathered at the Cross.

—

First—
the garden:

sleep-heavy disciples,
the dark of Gethsemane
across the valley.

“I am He.”

Then—
the priests,
the elders,
the gathering of judgment.

—

It began again:

Creation.
Exodus.
Crucifixion.

One story
opening within another.

—

And on the Cross—

“It is finished.”

A cry
that shook the world
and emptied
the hidden chambers of the heart.

—

In the sanctuary
a fragile sound arose—

youth voices,
thin as light,
yet filled with heaven—

flowing from the altar,
down the steps,
into the sea of souls,
into the flood of tears.

—

O Sacred One,
wounded with grief,
crowned with shame and thorns—

all languages shattered,
scattered beyond speech.

Nothing remained.

Nothing—
but a burning depth.

—

And there—

beyond sorrow,
beyond the weight of sin—

a light.

—

The first day
again.

The Creator spoke:

Let there be—

and the waters parted,
sky from deep,
tears from silence.

And life—
fragile, trembling—
filled the edges of fear.

And the Creator blessed:

Be.

Be beautiful.

—

Then rest—

not ending,
but release:

death undone,
grief opened,
the Sabbath filled
with the heart of God.

—

No longer reflection—
but becoming.

No longer memory—
but presence.

Christ—
not held in the tomb,
not bound to one body—

but living
in many bodies,
in many tongues,
in every broken place
made whole.

—

What Babel scattered,
the Spirit gathers.

What fear divided,
love restores.

Peace—
not distant—
but here.

Now.
Forever.

—

And still the voices rise—

“O Lamb of God,
most stainless—”

their song
a trembling bridge
between earth and heaven.

And in the unseen harmony,
like the hand of the perfect other
guiding hidden music—

the breath of the Creator
moves again:

in rhythm,
in balance,
in infinite grace.

—

Forever.

– TaeHun Yoon, on Good Friday