They say there’s something different in the air every Good Friday.
The sun dims a little more than usual, the birds go quieter than normal, and even the wind, that old gossip, hushes itself—perhaps remembering something it whispered about over two thousand years ago.
Because on that first Good Friday, the stage wasn’t just set on Calvary—it stretched across the heavens and the depths. The cast? Angels, devils, and a carpenter who dared call Himself the Son of God.
I like to imagine, the devils came early that day, front-row seats to what they believed would be a grand finale.
They brought their sneers, sharpened them on whips and thorns, and waited gleefully as Christ stumbled under the weight of a cross not His. Every time a soldier raised his hand, the devils laughed and the angels cried.
Every lash, every taunt, every spit, they laughed and the angels cried.
The angels cried, and I would like to imagine, their angelic wings tucked in reverence. How do you cheer when your King is being crucified? They watched, fists clenched, unable to intervene as nails—so large they looked like mini spears—were driven into hands that once healed the blind and raised the dead.
“He’s thirsty!” someone cried.
And the devils laughed louder. “Let Him beg for water!” they jeered, as vinegar touched lips that once spoke life into lepers. And with every ragged breath He took, they leaned forward, waiting for Him to curse, to call down fire, to save Himself—because if He did, the plan would fail. But He didn’t.
And that’s what made the angels cry harder. Not just because He was suffering. But because He was choosing to.
He looked down not with hate, but with forgiveness. He saw mockers and murmured mercy. He saw murderers and offered paradise. He saw humanity at its worst—and loved still.
And then, just when the devils were preparing their after-party, He said it. Not a whimper, not a whisper. But a cry that shattered both sky and soil: “It is finished!”
At that moment, the devils stopped laughing.
Wait—what was finished?
Their chokehold on mankind, that’s what.
Their stranglehold on souls, sin, and shame.
Their assumption that death had the final word.
Because what died that day wasn’t just a man—it was their dominion.
The veil tore, the earth quaked, and the angels—those quiet, grieving sentinels—I would like to imagine, suddenly burst out laughing. A holy, echoing laughter that bounced off tombstones and echoed through time.
And the devils? They’ve been crying ever since.
So this Good Friday, as we stand in churches or sit in silence, let’s remember: victory came in the stillness of a dying man who whispered life into eternity.
That’s why the angels laugh.
And the devils—ah well—they still haven’t stopped crying…!
The Author conducts an online, eight session Writers and Speakers Course. If you’d like to join, do send a thumbs-up to WhatsApp number 9892572883 or send a message to bobsbanter@gmail.com
