—at Church Street

I felt the breath of the Creator—
not distant, not concealed—
but moving among us,
tender as light on open skin,
vast as the unseen tide.

Time did not pass—
it opened.
It widened into stillness
where all moments meet.

Creation—
and Crucifixion—
not two, but one unfolding,
crossing within the same living hour.

—

Good Friday—
and I entered,
not merely a place,
but a chamber of listening—

the Word
arching above us,
holding us
as stone holds echo,
as sky holds flight,

until the hour beyond noon
lingered
and would not depart.

—

I remembered—
how voices once rose in their pride,
the Tower of Babel
lifting itself
on the scaffolding of power and gold—

tongue against tongue,
name against name—

yet here,
before the Cross,
all speech loosened,
fell open,
broke into silence.

And in that silence—
a deeper language began.

—

Not many tongues—
but one breath
moving through all.

Like an unseen ocean
without shore,
without division—

and we,
not speaking,
but being spoken.

—

A voice moved among us—
not from above,
but from within the wound of the world:

Christ is not absent.

He is here—
where flesh is torn,
where sorrow breathes,
where the earth cries out.

And I—
I did not circle the pain,
did not stand apart—

I entered.
I walked
into His wounds.

—

Another voice—
quieter, trembling—
a boundary breaking:

Be careful—
for truth, when living,
is no longer safe.

And I saw—
the Passion
had not remained behind us.

It had risen,
walked out into the streets,
and taken on our faces.

—

We moved—
not as strangers,
but as one body remembering itself—

shoulder to shoulder,
breath to breath—

drawn forward
to the altar
as rivers are drawn
to the sea.

—

And there—
the garden returned:

the weight of sleep,
the nearness of betrayal,
the dark trees of Gethsemane
standing silent across the valley.

“I am He.”

The words still echo—
through time,
through us.

—

Then came the gathering—
power cloaked in judgment,
fear dressed as certainty—

priests, elders, voices—
ancient, familiar,
alive again.

—

And I saw—
it was beginning again:

Creation—
Exodus—
Crucifixion—

not past,
not finished—

but opening,
always opening,
within us.

—

And on the Cross—

Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani—

the cry
that tears the veil of heaven,
that empties the hidden rooms of the soul.

“It is finished.”

And yet—
nothing ended.

Everything
was laid bare.

—

Then—
a sound—

fragile, luminous—
as though the air itself were singing.

Voices—young, trembling—
yet filled with something ancient,
something whole—

rising from the altar,
flowing outward
like light made audible—

down the steps,
into the gathered,
into the breaking hearts,
into the silent tears.

—

O Holy One—
wounded,
crowned in sorrow and thorns—

language shattered—
scattered beyond recovery.

Nothing remained
to be said.

Only this—
a depth burning
without words.

—

And there—
beyond grief,
beyond sin,
beyond all naming—

light.

—

The first day—
again.

And the Creator spoke—
not once, but always:

Let there be—

and the waters opened,
the sky lifted,
the silence broke into breath—

and life—
fragile, radiant—
stood at the edge of fear
and did not turn back.

—

And the blessing came:

Be.

Be.

Be beautiful.

—

And then—
rest.

Not ending—
but release.

Not absence—
but fullness.

Death undone.
Grief opened.
The Sabbath
filled with the living heart of God.

—

No longer remembering—
but becoming.

No longer distant—
but here.

Christ—
not enclosed in stone,
not confined to one form—

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

—

What Babel scattered—
the Spirit gathers.

What fear divided—
love restores.

Peace—
not far,
not delayed—

but here.

Now.

Always.

—

And still—
the voices rise:

“O Lamb of God—”

a song trembling
between earth and heaven,

a bridge
no hand can build,
yet all may cross.

—

And beneath it all—
the hidden rhythm,
the unseen harmony—

the breath of the Creator
moving again,

through all things,
in all things—

endless,
balanced,
alive.

—

Forever.

– TaeHun Yoon, on Good Friday