They had hoped so much. Seen so much. Years of their lives were spent following this Man, believing His Word. "Where would we go, Lord? You have the words of life!"
And now... now where do they go? How can life ever be worth living again?
Maybe Peter tried to go fishing, one of those dark days. Maybe he looked at his empty nets and, try as he might, could only see them brimful and breaking with the fish summoned by their Maker.
Maybe John tried to comfort Mary... but couldn't convince himself that there was really any comfort to offer.
Did any of them expect it? Did any of them remember the promises of Christ- hear them faintly echoing, but echoing louder and louder as Sunday approached?
Did Pilate sleep soundly- did his washed hands make a washed conscience? Or did he dream of the Man Who had come to testify to the truth?
Did the leaders of Israel post guards to keep the disciples from stealing the body of Christ? Or did they, deep down, know that that was a pretense to try to prevent a greater deliverance?
Did Joseph of Arimathea think that he would go down in history as the man who gave the tomb that held the Messiah? Or did he have the faith to see that the tomb couldn't hold the Messiah?
There was the sting of death. There was the victory of the grave. And they were all burdened and bound under its awful conqueror's rule. Their King, their Hero, had fallen in the battle. All was lost.
Imagine the tears Saturday night.
But imagine the morning.
Oh, imagine the morning.
"Death is swallowed up in victory. O Death, where is your victory? O Death, where is your sting?"