The first figure we encounter is Joseph of Arimathea, the wealthy man who shouldered the responsibility for Christ’s burial. He’s shown holding the hammer and pinchers he used to remove Christ’s body from the Cross. He cannot bear to look at the body of the man he had followed, now empty, lying before him. It is almost as if he were to look, the grief would overwhelm him.
Then, we notice Christ’s own mother, Mary, the one who gave birth to this child born to die. She was there at the foot of the Cross as he died. Now she stands before his lifeless body, clutching her hands in agony. She holds them against herself as if she is holding in her very heart to prevent it from escaping. But she is, isn’t she? Not only is her child dead, but her Savior.
John, the beloved disciple, stands beside Mary. Even in Christ’s own anguish on the Cross, he showed compassion for his mother and presented John as a new son to care for her. Here John seems unable to comfort his new mother, let alone himself. He stands heartbroken, frozen before the body of his Lord in disbelief.
Next is Mary, wife of Clopas. She is mentioned only once in Scripture. In the Gospel of John, she stands with Mary, the mother of God, at the foot of the Cross. It is assumed that she, too, will prepare the body for burial. Early historian Eusebius of Caesarea held that Clopas was St. Joseph’s brother, making this Mary Christ’s aunt. Here she holds her hands out, as if to shield herself from the horror. Her body pushes backwards; we hear her gasps as she chokes on her sorrow.
Lamentation invites us into the raw emotion of the day when all hope seemed lost. The day when it seemed the darkness overcame the light. On Good Friday, sit before Christ’s body, and feel the full weight of grief, not only of that day over 2,000 years ago, but in imagining our own lives without Christ.
Without that weight of grief, we cannot begin to fathom the glory that awaits us.