There is a moment of holy silence here. 
A long breath that doesn’t return. 
An animating essence that departs. 
 
Jesus — Son of God, Word made flesh, healer, teacher, friend — is dead. 
Not metaphorically. Not symbolically. 
Truly, physically dead. 
 
He was here, and then He was not. 
His spirit breathed out. 
His body hung limp. 
And all that remained was stillness. 
 
It is a mystery so profound, we’d often rather look away. 
So we soften it with metaphors. A Lamb. A shadow. A symbol. 
Because staring directly at death — His or ours — is too much. 
 
But we must look. We must not rush past this moment. 
 
Because Jesus partook in death. 
 
He did not sidestep it. 
He did not pretend. 
He entered into it fully — into our greatest fear, into the curse of sin — for us.