Hope did not die here, but here was given.
Here is Hope!
In the aftermath of the turbulent and heart-wrenching events of Thursday and Friday of Easter week in Rob Gardner's Lamb of God, we are treated to these words that, to me, represent a ray hope through the gloom and darkness following our Savior's death.
I love the imagery in this video. Particularly, I love the image of the angels so effortlessly casting aside the stone from the tomb. And I love the way in which the soldiers flee in fear when the angels approach just as the music intones, and ours is the vict'ry. These represent a very visual reminder that there is never and has never been any question of who the victor will be in the end. I also love the imagery depicted by the cloudy, overcast twilight of Friday evening and I am easily reminded of all of the times in my life where twilight and storm clouds settle in. At times like these, I brace myself for the inevitable storms that will follow. And I hope against all hopes that the sun will rise again. What I often forget to remember in these moments is that the Son did rise again. Again, the victorious outcome has already been determined. And it is in this that I can find my greatest hope. Here is hope.
Even with that hope that was given through the Atonement of my brother, though, the Saturdays of our lives are not necessarily any easier to endure while we wait for the joyful resolutions of our own Easter Sundays.
When my little sister Amy passed away in a tragic accident at a very young age, I remember feeling more low and devoid of hope than probably at any other time that I can remember. The twilight and the storm clouds lingered for a very long time after the accident. Even now, I still feel a great deal of pain at my memories of the accident. And I know that I am not alone in these feelings. I specifically remember a conversation that I had with my dad in the weeks that followed while I was still waiting for that ray of sunshine to pierce through the thick haze that had descended on my life. Dad told me that, the way he saw it, there were three reasons that we might grieve at Amy's passing.
First, Dad told me that we might feel sad at the loss of Amy because we would never see her again. Of course, he told me by way of sharing his testimony and faith in the Resurrection, this is not true. I still remember how resolute and firm Dad's testimony of the Resurrection and of the eternal nature of families was as he shared it with me in this moment.
Second, Dad said that we might grieve at the tragic nature of Amy's passing. We might grieve for the pain and for the horror of the accident. Dad then proceeded to share with me his belief--perhaps his deepest hope--that, even though the accident was so vivid and traumatizing to those of us Amy left behind, he did not feel that Amy suffered greatly. Even today, I too share this belief and hope. I can't believe that an infinitely loving Elder Brother, who suffered the little ones to come unto Him and said that it would be better to hang a millstone around one's neck and drown in the depths of the sea than to offend one of these little ones, and His Father would allow such a precious and sweet little child to suffer physically in that moment. I don't necessarily believe that, like in the movie Heaven Can Wait, guardian angels would jump in to pull a spirit from a body just prior to an accident to save that person from the physical pain that would follow. But, if our Father were to allow this with any of His children, I truly believe it would be with these little ones. However it might work out, I believe and I hope that the passing of any little one, or any child of God who dies in the Lord, would be sweet unto them, whatever that might entail in the eternal scheme of things.
Finally, Dad said that we might and we would feel grief at the absence of our little Amy. Yes, we would see Amy again. Yes, her death might have been sweet unto her. But her absence would leave a void in our own lives that could be patched but would always remain.
For some of us, our Saturdays may last for a very long time. The storm might seem like it will go on forever. But, because the Son rose again on Sunday morning, we can be assured that the sun will rise as well on our own Sunday mornings. My personal hope swells at the knowledge that my Saturday will not and cannot last forever. And I am blessed with the comforter, which Christ promised to send in His absence and whom Christ promised might abide with me forever, who can help me through each day of my personal Saturday. I thank my God for the blessing of that comforter. I thank my God for the blessing of good friends. And I thank my God for the hope that was given through the life, the death, and the rising of my Elder Brother. Hope did not die here, but here was given. Here is hope!
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He who healed our sorrows, here was bruised and broken.
He whose love no end knows, here was forsaken, left all alone.
Here despair cries boldly, claiming this it's vict'ry.
Sweeter peace enfolds me:
Hope did not die here, but here was given.
Here is Hope.
He who was rejected, He knows well my longing.
He so long expected, carried our burdens, bore every sorrow:
Here is Hope.
Here is love unbounded,
Here is all compassion,
Here is mercy founded!
Hope did not die here, but here was given.
And ours is the vict'ry.
Here is Hope.
