It's Friday, But Sunday's Comin'

by S. M. Lockridge

It's Friday.  

Jesus is praying.  Peter is asleep.  Judas is betraying.  But Sunday's comin'.

It's Friday.  

Pilate is struggling.  The council is conspiring.  The crowd is vilifying.  They don't even know that Sunday's comin'.

It's Friday.  

The disciples are running like sheep without a shepherd.  Mary's crying.  Peter is denying.  But they don't know that Sunday's a comin'.

It's Friday.  

The Romans beat my Jesus.  They robe Him in scarlet.  They crown Him with thorns.  But they don't know that Sunday's comin'.

It's Friday.  

See Jesus walking to Calvary.   His blood dripping.  His body stumbling.  And His spirit's burdened.  But you see, it's only Friday.  Sunday's comin'.

It's Friday.  

The world is winning.  People are sinning and evil is grinning.

It's Friday.  

The soldiers nail my Savior's hands to the cross.  They nail my Savior's feet to the cross.  And then they raise Him up next to criminals. 

It's Friday.  

But let me tell you something:  Sunday's comin'.

It's Friday.  

The disciples are questioning:  What has happened to their King?  And the Pharisees are celebrating that their scheming has been achieved.  But they don't know it's only Friday.  Sunday's comin'.

It's Friday.  

He's hanging on the cross.  Feeling forsaken by His Father.  Left alone and dying.  Can nobody save Him?  Oh, it's Friday.  But Sunday's comin'.

It's Friday. 

The earth trembles.  The sky grows dark.  My King yields His spirit.

It's Friday.  

Hope is lost.  Death has won.  Sin has conquered.  And Satan's just a laughing.

It's Friday.  

Jesus is buried.  A soldier stands guard, and a rock is rolled into place.

But it's Friday.  It is only Friday.  Sunday is a comin'.

*