Holy Saturday: The Bones of Adam

Even after his final breath, those last dregs of blood that escaped his side may have lived for hours—perhaps even days—under proper conditions. They may have endured as they slipped down his still-warm leg, dripped from his pierced foot, and fell to join the stagnant pool gathering beneath the cross. Even after his body was taken down and buried, and the heat of day gave way to the cold hours before morning, the remnants of that living blood may only then have finished their slow descent down the rock face, disappearing into the hard clay of Calvary. And in that slow passage through the dark earth, is it too much to imagine what his blood might have seen and touched?

The dusty earth of Calvary holds generations. In its layers lie the lives of those who watched and waited for the coming of a Messiah they would never see. But here, on that Saturday morning, in the slow descent of blood into the earth, history itself was being redeemed. The God who promised to dwell with his people in the holy city allowed his own blood to seep into the ground and comfort each generation it encountered. What a joy, what a privilege, to be an ordinary pebble touched by his living blood.

As that blood sank down—not only into the earth, but backward through the centuries—it may have met the rubble of old city walls, cast down after siege, war, and famine. Could his blood have lingered there a moment, resting gently on those broken stones and comforting them with his long-awaited presence? Might it have whispered, “I know your pain, and I promise: all things will be made new”?

Further down, his blood may have passed the tools of those forced to labor under tyrant kings, those who worked until they cried out, “How long, O Lord, till you come and set us free?” Might that blood have gently touched those broken tools and promised a world of rest and peace?

And if that blood seeped still deeper into the dark soil of history, past ruins, floods, and fossils, might it have reached the beginning, where a heap of dry bones lay murmuring, “If only I could touch him, might I be made well?” What if, beneath the rock of Calvary, that living blood in its unhurried descent came at last to rest upon the first bones of man, buried at the beginning of time? Those bones of Adam, you may say, are yours and mine. And what if that living blood breathed life into them again?

And so, for a few hours, those bones—who knew the secret that the blood still lived—waited and wondered, cherishing that hope to themselves. These pale bones of Adam’s, restored by the touch of their Savior’s blood, might well have smiled to know what tomorrow would bring.