Jesus wept first

Today, I remembered that the Savior wept first.

Before I ever did.

Before my chest ached with the hollow echo of goodbye, before I sat at the grave of what I loved, He stood at one too,

and the Word made flesh broke down in tears.

He, the Resurrection and the Life,

knew what was moments away.

He knew that in only a breath,

the stone would roll back,

and death would bow its trembling head.

And still… He wept.

That comforts me.

Because if the Son of God,

the One who held eternity in His hands,

could feel the ache of something that wouldn’t last, then why do I shame myself for grieving

things that are gone?

If He cried for what would rise again,

then maybe it’s holy

to cry for what won’t.

Maybe my tears aren’t weakness,

but worship in another form.

Maybe grief isn’t the absence of faith,

but the evidence of it.

Maybe these tears mean

I still believe that love was sacred,

that life was worth something,

that loss doesn’t get the final word.

So tonight, I let myself feel it,

the heaviness, the ache, the longing.

Because He felt it too.

The Savior didn’t rush past His pain;

He stood in it,

and sanctified it by His tears.

If He wept for Lazarus,

then He weeps with me now,

not because He’s unsure of resurrection,

but because He’s familiar with the ache before it comes.

And somehow,

that makes the silence sacred again.

Somehow, that makes me brave enough

to whisper through the sobs,

“I still believe You are good.”

He wept first.

And if He did,

then I am safe to do the same.