Good Friday once again. Two thousand years have passed since that first Friday on which the innocent Christ was put to death. And while observances of it have declined, a consequence of an increasingly faithless population, the meaning is the same as the first day. It has not lost of a jot of its significance for those who understand the gravity of what occurred.

I leave it to Christina Rossetti to express what I cannot.

Good Friday
 
Am I a stone, and not a sheep,
That I can stand, O Christ, beneath Thy cross,
To number drop by drop Thy blood’s slow loss,
And yet not weep?
 
Not so those women loved
Who with exceeding grief lamented Thee;
Not so fallen Peter weeping bitterly;
Not so the thief was moved;
 
Not so the Sun and Moon
Which hid their faces in a starless sky,
A horror of great darkness at broad noon –
I, only I.
 
Yet give not o’er,
But seek Thy sheep, true Shepherd of the flock;
Greater than Moses, turn and look once more
And smite a rock.