A barren hill, scraped by a listless wind, bald and white against the black sky.

A rabid crowd, garbed in grey, shouting for death but not yet knowing that for One death brings life.

A rough-hewn cross, etched in blood.

A Man.

But I cannot look at the Man, cannot bear to see that skin blackened with blood, that body so tortured by countless stripes and merciless beatings.

So I wander through the crowd, and I search their eyes for any relief from the dread that is overpowering on this day, but I do not find it.

I see the children, with their huge, solemn eyes, and the echo of their late hosannas cracks like thunder through my mind. Their voices are stilled now. There is no joy left in their faces. I see only fear. Fear, and a numbing knowing. ...continue reading →