It was the darkest day the earth had ever seen.
Literally.
At noon, when the sun should have been at its highest, the sky went black. Not clouded. Not stormy. Black. Like the heavens themselves turned their back on what was happening at Skull Hill.
Colin Smith’s *Heaven, How I Got Here* ends where history paused—between two worlds.
One man—the thief—is no longer with us. Neither is the Man on the middle cross. Their lifeless bodies hung in silence as the crowds shuffled home, bloodstained and stunned.
But they weren’t there anymore.
They were in Paradise.
And we’re left here, on the darkest night, to reckon with what it all meant.
You can’t read the thief’s story without feeling the silence that followed. He cried out. Jesus answered. And then… it was over.
Their last breath here was their first in eternity.
And we—we who remain—are forced to ask:
What happened there that was so earth-shattering it split history in two?
The Cross wasn’t a symbol that day. It wasn’t jewelry. It wasn’t art.
It was execution.
Roman, rugged, violent, final. A sentence for the guilty. A spectacle for the crowd. A curse for anyone who hung there.
And Jesus took it all.
Colin Smith gives us the perspective of a man who watched it happen from inches away. The thief saw the nails. Heard the screams. Smelled the blood.
He watched the Lamb of God become sin.
Not just for the world. For him.
That’s what makes this Friday so good. Not because it feels good. Because it doesn’t.
It’s heavy. It’s horrifying. It should break us.
It’s the day we remember that our lies, our greed, our pride, our hatred, our lust, our apathy—nailed Him there.
And He chose it.
No one took His life. He laid it down.
He absorbed the wrath we deserved so that He could speak one final word:
“It is finished.”
Not He is finished.
It.
The wrath. The penalty. The curse.
Paid in full.
The sky went black because the world couldn’t bear the weight of what was happening. The temple veil tore in two because heaven’s gates had been flung wide open. The ground shook because hell itself was trembling.
And then silence.
The thief’s voice is gone now. Jesus’ voice is gone too.
The earth is quiet.
But heaven isn’t.
Because Paradise—real Paradise—is now occupied by two unlikely residents.
A King… and a criminal.
The first man Jesus welcomed into glory was the last man anyone expected.
That’s what grace does. It invades the unworthy. It wrecks the religious assumptions. It replaces condemnation with communion.
And it demands that we deal with the Cross—not as theory, not as ritual, but as reality.
The Cross really happened.
And it was for you.
This Friday isn’t about feeling religious. It’s about standing at the foot of the execution site and asking, “Do I see it? Do I feel it? Do I believe it?”
Because until you do, Easter Sunday doesn’t make sense.
Resurrection is meaningless unless death was real. Hope is hollow unless judgment was paid. Light has no power unless it shatters darkness.
And today, the darkness was absolute.
So let it hit you.
Let the tears fall.
Let the weight of your sin rest where it belongs—on Jesus.
The Cross cost Him everything. And He gave it freely.
For the thief.
For you.
So before Sunday comes, sit in this. Don’t rush to the empty tomb just yet.
First, look at the skull-shaped hill, stained with holy blood.
Let it wreck you.
Then, let it rescue you.
Because the silence of Friday was real. But so was the promise:
“Today you will be with Me in Paradise.”
He meant it.
And He means it still.
So before you scroll on, I’m asking you to do something intentional:
Click here and watch the full-length film adaptation of the book.
Let the darkness speak.
Let the silence say what it must.
And let the Cross prepare your heart for what’s coming next.