Satan enjoyed that Friday intensely.
He perched on the cross, watching the Son of God suffering and dying, sin piled on his boney shoulders, occasionally crying out in pain.
He crept up beside him to mock and jeer. He made his way through the crowd, throwing fuel on the fire of hatred and spite in the men who mumbled, “He saved others, but he can’t save himself” and shouted with a laugh, “Come on down! Then we will worship you!”
He enjoyed sticking his sword through the heart of Jesus’ mother who was weeping in a heap a few yards from the cross, while Jesus writhed in agony, seemingly helpless to put a stop to it.
And he enjoyed stroking the egos of the religious leaders standing at a distance, stirring up an almost sexual glee in their flesh as they watched their enemy finally get what he deserved.
When Christ gave up and died (the first on the hill to cash it in, the demons pointed out with a scoff), the Devil laughed himself hoarse. The sight of the King of Kings, slumped against that pole, his eyes vacant, the birds of prey already swooping closer and closer, was too hilarious for words.
The Christ’s hold—or what had remained of it—on this wicked planet had finally been broken. Decisively. It was now the exclusive property of the Devil and his angels. If Satan had any doubt of that, it was put to rest when he heard the news that the curtain in the temple was split in two (so long, “holy place!”) and a surge of supernatural energy had caused hundreds of people to start seeing ghosts all over the city!
The age of evil—unfettered evil—was now beginning.
Saturday was a field day for Satan. He was usually in a foul mood on the Sabbath, but not today; not ever again! He attended a Roman orgy, the stoning of a young child, and several pagan temple services. And between each, he made a stop back at the tomb of Joseph of Arimathea, where Jesus’ dead body lay at room temperature.
As for Jesus’ soul, it was in Hades with all the pitiful slaves of sin and objects of wrath who had died before him. How utterly stupid of God himself to become sin and tempt fate on a Roman cross. Didn’t he know that, to the Prince of Darkness, a cross was like a lyre in the hands of a skilled musician?
The Devil spent the evening curled up under the bloated body of Judas Isacriot, hanging dead from a tree. Treachery was a great dessert, and Satan lingered there, dreaming about what he would do to his slaves tomorrow.
Then came Sunday.
Satan first heard the report from a demonic foot soldier who had been skulking . . .
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