Torn From The Top

They tell us the veil was thick—

not linen you could fold at night,

not fabric that stirred when men passed by,

but woven dense with warning,

thread upon thread,

layered with reverence and restraint.

Scripture does not measure it for us,

does not name its weight,

only tells us it stood

between glory and breath,

between the Holy

and the hopeful.

It guarded the Presence.

It held the silence.

It declared, Thus far and no farther.

Behind it—

fire,

mercy,

judgment,

the unbearable nearness of God.

Before it—

hands washed but hearts still waiting,

blood offered again and again,

prayers lifted from a distance

that never quite closed.

Once a year,

one man,

with fear stitched into every step,

passed through trembling—

not because the veil was gentle,

but because mercy allowed it.

Then on a hill outside the city,

when breath gave way

and the earth recognized its Maker,

the impossible happened.

The veil did not split where hands reach.

It did not tear from strain or effort.

No fingers pulled it open from below.

It was torn from the top.

From where God dwells.

From where glory begins.

From where permission was never asked.

He did not wait for us to climb.

He did not require our strength,

our worthiness,

our ability to reach Him.

He came down.

From heaven to hunger.

From holiness to thorns.

From eternal fullness

to a final cry.

The tear ran straight through centuries of separation—

through law and fear and distance,

through every almost and not yet.

The veil fell open

because the Son was torn.

And what once warned,

You may not enter,

now whispers,

Come boldly.

Because He did not just part fabric—

He parted Himself.

From the top to the bottom.

From heaven to earth.

From God to us.

And maybe it fell the way mercy does—

beginning in heaven,

moving downward,

refusing to stop.

Not torn in rage,

but opened in love.

As if the Father looked upon us and said,

They do not know what they do,

and let forgiveness run

all the way down.