A poem
EVEN THIS

They said He was finished.
Wrapped Him in linen.
Buried the Word like punctuation
but Heaven never ends with a period.

See,
this story?
It splits silence.
It breaks stone.
It bleeds hope into places that forgot the sound of song.

And it begins again with two impossible words:
Even this.

When the diagnosis steals the name you used to answer to
When your marriage is a mausoleum with smiling pictures on the wall
When your soul limps through Tuesday pretending it’s fine
Even this.

When betrayal wears the face of someone you trusted
When the church hurts more than the world ever did
When your prayers ricochet off ceilings like broken arrows
Even this.

We read Romans 8:28 like a lullaby,
but it’s more like a war cry.
A verse forged in prison breath and beaten bones.
A promise with scars.
Not all things are good
but all things are His.
And when He touches it
it changes.

Because Sunday happened.

The grave broke.
The silence cracked.
The Lion roared.
And the tomb that once drank blood
spit out a Savior.

Hell held its breath
and lost.

Even this.

You see, the cross wasn’t Plan B.
It was the hammer that broke the curse.
The ransom note scribbled in crimson:
“I want them back.”


And the resurrection?
That’s God lighting matchsticks in our graves saying,
“Get up. You don’t belong here.”

So when the enemy shows you rubble,
you show him resurrection.
When fear shouts louder,
whisper louder still:
Even this.

When your soul says,
“This is too far gone,”
Stand on bruised feet and reply:
“So was Jesus.”

He is not done.
Not with your shame.
Not with your silence.
Not with your story.

He is writing glory

He is resurrecting beauty
from unbeautiful things.

And today
in the tension,
in the tear,
in the tomb
He speaks again:

“Even this.”

So what’s your “this”?

Say it.
Name it.
Don’t dress it up. Don’t water it down.

Hold it up to the light
and listen to the God who walks out of graves
and calls you by name:

Redeemed.
Restored.
Resurrected.

And then say it with Him:

“Even this.”