Holy Saturday Musings with Links and a Poem: LIMBO

Jimmy Akin has an interesting piece about pinning down the date of Jesus' Crucifixion

Descent of Christ from the Cross
 ~ Jean Joseph Weerts (AD 1847-1927)

and it's April 3, AD 33.

Saturdays are devoted to Mary. If her greatest joy had been to hold the baby Jesus, then the greatest sorrow occurred when she held the dead Body of her Son on Good Friday. Yet, she in her sorrow had the fullness of the faith even though everybody had lost it--the Apostles and holy women did not expect the Resurrection even though Jesus Himself spoke about it! There is a beautiful and more thorough explanation here from which I quote: "It is precisely the day that reminds us of the tragic hour of doubt and abandonment... Until the triumph of the Immaculate Heart comes we are living a great Holy Saturday in which one would say that everything we love lies in the grave without balms and in disorder, contempt, hatred and abandonment." 

I've been spending a lot of time with St. Joseph and it's clear that his greatest sorrow was knowing that the beautiful Child would one day suffer and His Mother will share that pain and sorrow and he would not be there to protect them. And so I repost: In the Apostles Creed, which we recite daily, we speak of Jesus descending into hell. This is not the hell of the damned, but simply the abode of the dead, before the gates of heaven were opened. And here's a beautiful poem about it:

Limbo By Sister Mary Ada, OSJ

 

The ancient greyness shifted

Suddenly and thinned

Like mist upon the moors

Before the wind.

An old, old prophet lifted

A shining face and said:

“He will be coming soon.

The Son of God is dead;

He died this afternoon.”

A murmurous excitement stirred

All souls.

They wondered if they dreamed –

Save one old man who seemed

Not even to have heard.

And Moses, standing,

Hushed them all to ask

If any had a welcome song prepared.

If not, would David take the task?

And if they cared

Could not the three young children sing

The Benedicite, the canticle of praise

They made when God kept them from perishing

In the fiery blaze?

A breath of spring surprised them,

Stilling Moses’ words.

No one could speak, remembering

The first fresh flowers,

The little singing birds.

Still others thought of fields new ploughed

Or apple trees

All blossom-boughed.

Or some, the way a dried bed fills

With water

Laughing down green hills.

The fisherfolk dreamed of the foam

On bright blue seas,

The one old man who had not stirred

Remembered home.

Andrea di Bonaiuto (AD 1346-1379), Descent of Christ to Limbo

And there He was

Splendid as the morning sun and fair

As only God is fair.

And they, confused with joy,

Knelt to adore

Seeing that He wore

Five crimson stars

He never had before.

No canticle at all was sung

None toned a psalm, or raised a greeting song.

A silent man alone

Of all that throng found tongue –

Not any other

Close to His heart.

When the embrace was done,

Old Joseph said, “How is Your Mother,

How is Your Mother, Son?”