And Mary Magdalene and Mary the mother of Joses observed where He was laid. NKJV
How slow grief is to arrive at understanding. Grief is ignorant and does not even care to learn. When the grieving women observed where Jesus body was laid, did they anticipate the triumph of His coming victory over death and sin? Did they expect anything except that Jesus was gone? The Christ we know today came from their loss. Countless mourning hearts have since seen resurrection in the midst of their grief, and yet these sorrowing women saw nothing except Jesus body being laid in the tomb (Luke 24:3-4, John 20:11). What they regarded as the end of Jesus’ life was actually the preparation for His coronation.
They did not see it. They mourned, wept, went away, and then returned again to the sepulcher, driven by their broken hearts. And still it was only a tomb—voiceless, and drab.
It is the same with us. Each of us observes the tomb in our own garden and initially says, “This tragedy is irreparable. I see no benefit in it and will take no comfort in it.” And yet right in the midst of our deepest and worst adversities, the resurrected Jesus is there, waiting for us to take hold of the victory that He has won for us.
Our Savior is alive and victorious where our death seems to be. At the end of our hope, we find the brightest beginning of fulfillment. Where darkness seems the deepest, the most brilliant light is ready to emerge. And once the experience is over, we find that our garden is not disfigured by the tomb.
Our joys are made more glorious when sorrow is in the midst of them. And our sorrows are turned to joy through the many graces that God has planted around them. At first the flowers of our garden may not appear to be our favorites, but we will learn that they are the flowers of our hearts. The flowers planted at the grave deep within the Believer’s heart are love, hope, faith, joy, and peace.
`Twas by a path of sorrows drear Christ entered into rest;
And shall I look for roses here, or think that earth is blessed?
Heaven’s whitest lilies blow from earth’s sharp crown of woe:
Who here his cross can meekly bear, shall wear the kingly purple there. L.B. Cowman