Black

Black.

It represents the Night. Death. Depression and Melancholy. It’s thought to be the colour of Evil. It is separation from light. And is symbolic of separation from life. And of oblivion.

Today is Good Friday.

A day the traditional Church typically drapes it’s alter in Black.

Powerful.

In its simplicity, one of the most powerful and moving symbols of this sombre day was several years ago when one man, John*, a tanned and burly bricklayer and active army reservist, a real man complete with tatoo’s who stood out in a congregation conspiculouly under represented with rugged masculinity, entered the small Church we were attending at the time, carrying a heavy wooden cross.

He then proceeded to hammer, four six-inch nails into the cross.

One at a time.

Bang!!! Bang!!! Bang!!! Bang!!!

Each strike of the hammer seemed to echo through my ears, and then resonate through the length of my entire body ― before reaching its final destination - etching an imprint that has been taken captive by my mind, Forever.

Lord, thank you for this Tradition. For this day.

Black.



*not his real name.