Introduction: 

As you stepped outside this morning, perhaps you noticed how the air still held the hush of night. The sky, streaked with hints of orange and gold, began to brighten the edges of the earth. The grass glistened with dew, the trees stood still in reverent silence, and the birds, hesitant at first, now begin to lift their voices in chorus. All of creation seems to wait in expectation.

We gather at sunrise not by accident, but by design. We gather as those first followers did; in dim light, with weary hearts, uncertain yet compelled by love to draw near to the tomb. We gather while the world still sleeps, not to mourn the end of a story, but to celebrate the beginning of all things made new.

As the first rays of sunlight peek over the horizon, we gather in the quiet of this sacred hour. It is early, just as it was on that first Easter morning. The world is still waking, the air is still chilled with the echoes of night, and we, like the women who came to the tomb, approach with hearts full of reverence, ready to encounter the risen Lord.

Matthew begins his account of the resurrection simply stating that, “When morning came…” (Matthew 27:1). But that morning was unlike any other. Yes a new day dawned, but for those who followed Jesus, it was a morning steeped in grief. Their Master had been arrested, tried, mocked, scourged, crucified. The sun may have risen, but their hope had set.

And still, they rose early to go to the tomb. So before we rush to the empty tomb, we must linger at the place of execution. Before we proclaim the victory of resurrection, we must reckon with the agony of crucifixion.  

“Was ever grief like mine?”  

George Herbert, the 17th-century poet and Anglican priest, dared to enter that pain. In his poem “The Sacrifice,” he imagines the voice of Christ from the cross, repeating the refrain like a drumbeat of divine sorrow: “Was ever grief like mine?”  

“The Sacrifice” by George Herbert

Behold, they spit on me in scornful wise, 

Who by my spittle gave the blind man eyes,

 Leaving his blindness to my enemies: 

Was ever grief like mine? 

My face they cover, thought it be divine. 

As Moses’ face was veiled, so is mine, 

Lest on their double-dark souls either shine: 

Was ever grief like mine? 

Servants and cast offs mock me; they are witty: 

Now prophesy who strikes thee, is their ditty. 

So they in me deny themselves all pity: 

Was ever grief like mine? 

And now I am delivered unto death, 

Which each one calls for so with utmost breath, 

That he before me well nigh suffereth: 

Was ever grief like mine? 

Weep not, dear friends, since I for both have wept 

When all my tears were blood, the while you slept: 

Your tears for your own fortunes should be kept:

 Was ever grief like mine? 

The soldiers lead me to the Common Hall; 

There they deride me, they abuse me all: 

Yet for twelve heavenly legions I could call: 

Was ever grief like mine? 

Then with a scarlet robe they me array; 

Which shows my blood to be the only way 

And cordial left to repair man’s decay: 

Was ever grief like mine? 

Then on my head a crown of thorns I wear: 

For these are all the grapes Zion does bear, 

Though I my vine planted and watered there: 

Was ever grief like mine? 

So sits the earth’s great curse in Adam’s fall 

Upon my head: so I remove it all 

From th’earth unto my brows, and bear the thrall: 

Was ever grief like mine? 

Then with the reed they gave to me before, 

They strike my head, the rock from thence all store 

Of heavenly blessings issue evermore: 

Was ever grief like mine? 

The irony is almost unbearable. The same mouth that once formed worlds, that healed with a word, is now mocked curses and with spit. The very One who gave sight with His touch is now blinded, not by accident, but by contempt. He is struck, not in righteous judgment, but in mocking defiance. The Healer is assaulted. The Creator is humiliated by those He made.  

The glory that once lit the face of Moses is now veiled, not because it’s absent, but because it’s too much to bear. Christ hides His radiance, not to shield Himself, but to expose our blindness. His face is covered, but His purpose is not.  

Was there ever sorrow so layered, so deliberate, so undeserved? Was there ever rejection so thorough? Ever love so fierce, so relentless, so self-giving? 

“Was ever grief like mine?”  

The soldiers jeer: “Prophesy to us, Christ! Who struck you?” They strike Him again and again, thinking they’re in control. But they’re actors in a prophecy older than Rome. Isaiah had already described the scene:  “He was oppressed and afflicted, yet he did not open his mouth; like a lamb that is led to the slaughter.” (Isaiah 53:7)

This is no accident. No divine plan gone wrong. Jesus is not caught in a trap. He’s walking into the passion of the cross willingly. He bears more than Roman nails. More than splinters and thorns. He bears the full weight of the world’s rebellion. He bears the holy wrath reserved for sin, our sin.  

“Mine, mine was the transgression, but thine the deadly pain.”  

This is the scandal of substitution. The sinless One becomes sin. The Just dies for the unjust. The Beloved becomes the forsaken.

“Was ever grief like mine?”  

He had the power to end it. One word could have silenced the accusers, summoned angels, stopped history. But He doesn’t speak that word. He stays. He bleeds. He chooses the cup.

Judas tried to undo what he’s done. He brings back the silver in deep regret;, but the priests won’t take it. He throws it down. But silver can’t pay for blood. 

Pilate tried to shift the blame. “I am innocent of this man’s blood,” he declares. But water can’t wash guilt. And none of us are innocent.

The crowd, loud and confident, cried out: “His blood be on us and on our children!” (Matthew 27:25). They mean it as a curse. But heaven will turn it into a covering. The blood they meant for judgment becomes the very means of mercy.

They dress Him in a royal robe, mocking royalty they do not recognize. They crown Him, not with gold, but with thorns. They place a reed in His hand, a scepter of ridicule. And they kneel, not in worship, but in jest:  “Hail, King of the Jews!”  

Heaven is silent. Earth is still. The angels do not intervene. They know, this is the reasons He came to earth. He is led to Golgotha. Stripped. Nailed. Lifted between criminals. His blood stains the wood. The crowd mocks again:  “He saved others; he cannot save himself.”  And they’re right, He can’t save both. To save us, He must not save Himself.

Darkness falls. For three hours, the sun hides its face. Creation mourns as its Creator hangs in agony. Then the voice:  “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Matthew 27:46).   This is no crisis of faith. It’s the language of the Psalms. It’s lament, not unbelief. He is quoting Scripture even as He fulfills it. He suffers in solidarity with every soul who has ever felt abandoned by God.

Then, with a loud cry, He gives up His spirit. No one takes His life. He offers it. Freely. Willingly.  

The temple curtain tears from top to bottom. Heaven makes the first move. The barrier is broken. The veil is gone. Access is granted. The ground shakes. Rocks split. Tombs break open. Death itself begins to unravel.

A Roman centurion, seasoned in death, sees it all and confesses what the crowd was too blind to see:  “Truly this was the Son of God.” (Matthew 27:54)

Jesus is taken down. Wrapped in linen. Laid in a borrowed tomb. The stone is rolled into place. The seal is set. Guards are stationed. The silence of Saturday settles over the earth.

But that silence is not the end. It’s the stillness before resurrection. The grief that seemed final will be swallowed by glory.

“Was ever glory like this?”

On Sunday morning the sun rises, but something far greater than the rising sun has already broken through. A new day is here but, so too is the new creation. The women come to the tomb, carrying spices and sorrow. They expect to find a lifeless body. But instead, they find the stone rolled away. The grave is open. The guards are gone. And angels ask, “Why do you seek the living among the dead? He is not here, but has risen.” (Luke 24:5, ESV).

He is not here. The absence is the announcement. From the beginning, God’s people had longed for His presence. The presence of God was the good news, but now, here in this garden tomb, for the first and only time, the opposite is true. His absence is good news. His absence is the sign of life. The stone is rolled away not so Jesus could leave, but so we could look in. So we could see that death has no hold. That sin is paid for. That the grave has been broken. The place of mourning becomes the birthplace of hope. The graveyard becomes holy ground.

Later that same day, two disciples walk the road to Emmaus, shoulders low, hearts heavy. They speak of all they had hoped Jesus would be, and how that hope had died with Him. Jesus joins them, though they don’t recognize Him. He asks what they’re discussing. They speak of disappointment. Of confusion. Of grief. And He says to them:  “Was it not necessary that the Christ should suffer these things and enter into His glory?” (Luke 24:26, ESV).  Then He opens the Scriptures. He walks them through the story they thought they knew. From Moses to the prophets, from promise to fulfillment.  That night, as they sit down to eat, He takes bread, blesses it, breaks it, and suddenly they see. Their eyes are opened. They recognize Him. And just like that, He vanishes. But they are not dismayed. They are ignited. They rise and run back to Jerusalem, to tell the others: “He is alive. We have seen Him.”

That evening, Jesus appears one more time to His disciples. They are hiding; confused, afraid, ashamed. He had told them this would happen, but fear always forgets. Their locked doors could not hold him back anymore than the stone that sealed his tomb. He comes and appears to his disciples, in the midst of their fear and doubts. And His first words are not condemnation or discipline, but “Peace to you.” (Luke 24:36). He shows them His hands and feet, the marks still there. Glorified, but scarred. Resurrected, but real. He eats with them. He is not a vision. Not a spirit. He is fully, physically alive. Flesh and blood, risen and reigning.

We should make no mistake, the resurrection is not a metaphor. It’s not a myth. It’s not spiritual encouragement or symbolic rebirth. There was a real body that stood up. A real heart that started beating. And a real Savior who walked out of His grave. He is risen. He is reigning. He is worthy. 

What we celebrate today will be an evergoing, never ending celebration in heaven. When the book of Revelation pulls back the curtain on eternity and what do we see”  

“Then I looked, and I heard around the throne… the voice of many angels, numbering myriads of myriads… saying with a loud voice, ‘Worthy is the Lamb who was slain, to receive power and wealth and wisdom and might and honor and glory and blessing!’” (Revelation 5:11–12)

From mockery to majesty. From nails to a name above all names. From thorns to a throne.  

Was ever grief like His? Was ever glory like this?

So this morning, we worship, not a memory, but a living King. The tomb is empty. Death is undone. The curse has been reversed.  Christ is risen, and the world has changed. The resurrection doesn’t just confirm our faith. It defines it.

And so this morning I would like to conclude this message with the beautiful words of the hymn writer Charles Wesley:

Christ the Lord is ris’n today, 

Earth and heav’n in chorus say,

Raise thy joys and triumphs high, 

Sing, ye heav’ns, and earth reply, 

Love’s redeeming work is done, 

Fought the fight, the battle won,

Death in vain forbids him rise, 

Christ has opened paradise, 

Lives again our glorious King,

Where, O death, is now thy sting?

Once he died our souls to save, 

Where thy victory, O grave? 

Soar we now where Christ has led, 

Following our exalted Head,

Made like him, like him we rise, 

Ours the cross, the grave, the skies, 

Hail the Lord of earth and heav’n, 

Praise to thee by both be giv’n, 

Thee we greet triumphant now, 

Hail the Resurrection, thou, 

King of glory, soul of bliss, 

Everlasting life is this, 

Thee to know, thy pow’r to prove, 

Thus to sing, and thus to love, 

Hallelu-Halleluja! 

Let us pray.

Almighty and most merciful God, who through your only begotten Son Jesus Christ have triumphed over death and opened to us the gate of everlasting life, we humbly praise you and give you thanks, that you gave your beloved Son to die for our sins and to rise again for our justification, overcoming for us all our enemies: death, sin, the world, and the devil,  and restoring to us righteousness and life.

Grant us, we pray, that as your grace goes before us, planting in our hearts holy desires, so by your continual help we may faithfully pursue and bring them to good effect. Awaken us more and more, by the power of your Holy Spirit, from the death of sin to newness of life, that we may truly experience within ourselves the power of Christ’s resurrection.

Unite us ever more fully to him, day by day, until that great and glorious morning when our mortal bodies shall be raised from the dust, reunited with our spirits, made like his glorious body, and welcomed into everlasting joy and glory with him; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever. Amen.