---

Brief Introduction

As a pre-mission teenager studying at Brigham Young University, I wrote a text describing the last week of the Savior's life. It has been satisfying to look over the text and to see how my understanding and writing style have progressed. While this text certainly doesn't represent my best work, I thought I'd include it here just for fun.

The text begins in a childlike voice before progressing to a more sophisticated one. I thought that technique would serve to emphasize Christ's resurrection, which appears at the end of the story. In retrospect I think that technique didn't work so well; just the same, perhaps this story will touch someone anyway.

Note: Much of the terminology used in this story is not standard LDS terminology. I also took great literary license in writing this work of fiction, adding many speculative dialogues/perspectives that are not found in the historical/biblical record. What can I say; I was waxing creative. ;)

---

Golgotha and the Garden Tomb

by J. Devin Durrant
May 19, 1999
Copyright 1999, Jacob D. Durrant. All rights reserved.

To the students and faculty of Hillcrest High School,
1998, who gave me a story of friendship I’ll remember forever, and
to Jesus the Christ, whose story this is.

You don’t know me, but we’re best friends. I thought I’d drop you a line since we haven’t seen each other in so many years. How’s earth life treating you, anyway? Man, I sure do miss you a lot. Why just the other day the Great One and I were talking about how difficult mortality is for you sometimes. It must be so neat to be down there, though, in the action, just like we planned before the world was! I can’t tell you how excited I am for my turn! We talk about The Plan all the time up here, but to actually be down there, in the game, working for the cause in the flesh! Oh, it must be so awesome! Sometimes I come and hang around you, but it’s against the rules for me to show myself. Oh -- reminds me -- that history test you took the other day was terrible! I was watching your face as you filled out the multiple choice; it was so funny looking! I haven’t seen such misery since the time the Great One sent all those grasshoppers to plague the Egyptians! I don’t blame you one bit for getting a C+ on an exam that tricky. I’ll tell you a little secret if you promise not to tell anyone else. Your teacher wrote in his journal about how guilty he felt for making the test so impossible. See! What you said about him in the lunch room wasn’t true at all. He isn’t a “heartless, inhuman monster.”

Anyway, I’ve gotten way off the subject. I wanted to write to remind you about how it was in the Before. In front of the Hosts of Heaven the Great One kept insisting that you be told nothing.

“We sent the Children to be tested,” He said in His very most official voice. “We can’t tell them about the Before. They need to have faith.”

Then after all the Hosts had left to go shout Hosanna or something He pulled me aside.

“We’ve always been good friends, Maliel,” He said as he took me lovingly by my right hand. My tiny fingers always seem like little sticks when compared to His. I’d feel really wimpy if I didn’t force myself to remember that I am one of the most attractive angels in all of the Before.

“Go ahead and write,” He said, “but the letter has to be a secret, ok?”

I told him you’d keep this letter confidential. You will, won’t you? Think what Gabriel or Michael would do if they found out! God had to give them tempers so they’d be effective in the War in Heaven, but now that the battles have moved to earth their angry dispositions are just plain bothersome.

Anyway, like I was saying, I wanted to remind you about how it was in the Before, especially one week in particular. Man, that was the best week of my whole pre-earth life, and, best of all, I got to share it with you, my very best friend. Do you remember the one I’m talking about? Oh, of course not! Sorry.

It all started several millennia ago in the Sacred City during the time when the Great One had left us. He had been on earth over thirty years living as a man. Can you believe that? He had suffered and labored just like anyone else, and now His mortal ministry was almost over; He had only one week left. We were all so excited to have Him come back home. You and I and all the other angels used to visit Him all the time while He was on earth, but that just wasn’t the same as having Him back among us, just like before He left. No offence, but earth isn’t a very pleasant place; we didn’t enjoy having to leave the Before to visit Him there.

“I always feel out of place when I go down to earth,” you once confided in me. “I don’t understand why. After all, there is still glory there, even though it’s just Telestial.”

I so understood what you were saying. Even though it’s a world of glory, the people on it sometimes forget what glory is. I’ve often wondered if you feel out of place sometimes now, even though you’ve gone through the Veil of Forgetfulness. After all, you’re still the same person, even though you can’t remember.

Anyway, we were all very excited that we wouldn’t have to leave the Before anymore in order to visit the Great One, so we all payed careful attention to the last week of his life -- the last week before He would return to us. You and I were very adventurous, so we decided we were going to spend as much time on earth that week as we could possibly stand. After all, this would be our last opportunity to see the Great One in His mortality. It was an important time, and we decided to be the Forest Gumps of the pre-earth life, showing up for all the major historic events.

“Hurry up, Maliel,” you shouted. “First you were late when we morning stars sang together, and now you’re going to be late for the triumphal entry. The Great One is already sitting on the donkey. He’ll be entering the Sacred City any minute!”

“Sorry, sorry,” I responded. “I can’t find my palm leaves. I was saving them just for this occasion.”

“They’ll be plenty down there for you to use, Maliel,” you groaned.

“Oh, yeah. Well what are we waiting for, anyway?” I teased. “I bet I can beat you to the Sacred City!”

We both bolted for earth, and, unfortunately, you w-- oh, wait! You can’t remember anything, can you? I won by a long shot. I’ve always been the faster angel. We positioned ourselves in the crowd next to our friend Zechariah, perhaps the most dignified looking of all the angels. His smooth, white hair curls at the ears and frames his features as if they were part of some amazing painting. Even so, he is such a humble guy that when I first met him in the Before he didn’t even tell me what he’d been foreordained to do.

“You look like you could be a prophet,” I told him, half joking. Then later I found out that that’s exactly what his calling was! He hadn’t even told me! It was an honor to stand next to such a down-to-earth angel on this very important occasion.

“It’s going to be just like I said,” Zechariah told us. “‘Be happy,’ I told the daughters of Zion. ‘Shout for joy, for your King will come to you. He is the great Judge, but at the same time He is humble, so He’ll enter the Sacred City riding only a donkey.’”

I’ve never seen any angel as happy as Zechariah was that day. Years earlier nobody had listened to him, but now everybody was going to see his prophesy fulfilled. I grabbed a palm leaf and waited for the Great One to enter the Sacred City.

After a few minutes, the noisy crowd suddenly fell absolutely silent. You could have heard a pin drop if only pins had been invented. All at once the Great One entered the gate riding His donkey and began His journey through the dusty streets of the Sacred City. His long, brown locks fell softly on His shoulders and His quiet sort of smile was almost hidden by His well-kept beard. There was something about Him that was always so puzzling; He had strong, powerful arms and a robust physique, but an aura of meekness seemed constantly around Him. I never could understand how someone could be so powerful and yet so humble at the same time. Though they couldn’t see His smile, everyone could see His love for them in His beautiful blue eyes, which twinkled whenever He watched those who cared for Him. The Romans who oppressed some of the Children often sent their armed soldiers on horses through that gate to control the people with fear, but the Great One came peacefully without any armor and rode only a donkey. He was a far greater king than Caesar because He could lead men by putting love instead of terror into their hearts.

The silence of the crowd suddenly ended as everyone began to take their clothes and spread them on the earth before the Savior of the world. I carefully picked up my palm leaf -- the best looking one there, I might add -- and placed it in front of Him too. Like I said, it’s against the rules for us angels to be visible on earth unless we have permission, so no one in the crowd could see me, but, just the same, the Great One’s hidden smile widened a bit when he noticed me. He has a special way of making you feel like you’re the most important angel in the whole Before, even though you know He loves all the angels equally.

It felt so good to see all the disciple-Children praising and adoring Him as their King that day, especially because we knew how He’d be treated a few days later. If I’d been up there on that donkey, I’d have been so proud I’d have made the Fallen One look like a saint, but Jesus wasn’t like that at all. I remember a cute little red-haired boy squirmed away from his mother’s arms and ran through the excited crowd towards Him.

“Samuel!” the mother shouted. “Come back! Don’t disturb Jesus now!”

I could tell the mother was real embarrassed. This was the Great One’s big moment, and she thought He wouldn’t want to be bothered by a young boy, even a real cute one.

Without a second thought, the Master picked the little boy up and laid him on the donkey’s neck so that his head was right next to the animal’s ears. They stared into each other’s eyes for a few moments, and then the little one started to chuckle. Sitting him up, the Great One hugged him briefly and started to tickle him, and the little boy’s chuckles turned into uncontrolled laughter.

“I love you, Jesus,” he said after his friend had stopped.

That’s how the Great One always was. He could have taken all the honor of riding regally through the Sacred City for Himself, but instead He placed the young boy on the donkey with Him and let the little one share in His glory.

Suddenly the crowd began to shout, “Hosanna to the Son of David: Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord; Hosanna in the highest. Blessed be the kingdom of our father David, that comes in the name of the Lord: Hosanna in the highest!”

I’d been practicing my Hosanna shouts in our heavenly choir practices which, by the way, aren’t so heavenly. Gabriel is the director.

“Let’s try that again,” he’d sneer, “this time with the tenors in the same key as the rest of the choir.”

Anyway, my Hosanna shouts were doubtless the best ones in the whole crowd.

One of the Children who didn’t know the Great One, an older fellow with unkept black hair and sullen-looking eyes, asked, “Who is this man?” and one of the disciple-Children said “He is Jesus, the prophet of Nazareth of Galilee.”

That combined with all the “Son of David” comments being thrown around really bothered some of the Pharisees. A few of them left the crowd and approached Him.

“Master,” they asked the Son of God, “tell your disciples to cut all of this out!”

The Great One was always so patient with the Pharisees. We angels saw His quiet little laugh, but I don’t think anyone else noticed.

“Don’t you realize what I’m doing?” He was probably thinking to Himself, grinning a little bit because these silly Pharisees, the same who thought themselves so powerful, were trying to interfere with an event predestined from since before the world was. If only they knew!

Even so, Christ still loved them just as He loves all of the Children. After all, He knew each of them from the Before, even though they didn’t remembered Him. Lovingly, He told them, “If I tell my disciples to stop praising me the rocks around us will immediately begin to shout praises to their God.”

Amen to that! Imagine those Pharisees trying to ruin the Master’s triumphal entry! He was way too nice to them. I’d have just said, “Oh, be quiet you grumpy party-poopers. Even the rocks want to praise Him, and you’re asking Him to tell His own disciples -- those who love Him the most -- to be silent. No way, no how.”

As the Lord entered His temple we decided to return to the Before. All of this earth-dwelling had made me a little bit nauseous, and you were getting worried about me. You were always such a good friend, always so concerned about how I felt. The Great One was a lot like that, too; you kind of remind me of Him.

“Are you feeling better?” you asked after we had arrived in the Before. “I’ve never seen an angel turn that shade of green!”

“It was just the way the sunlight was reflecting off my palm leaf,” I countered. “Why, I could spend all of eternity down their on earth if I needed to.”

“Whatever,” you laughed. I suspected that you were secretly jealous of my earth-dwelling stamina. “I don’t know how you’re going to survive earth life, Maliel.”

“It’s always so wonderful to see the Great One. I sure wish I could understand what exactly it is about being around Him that is so uplifting. I feel like a better angel whenever He smiles at me.”

“I was thinking about that just the other day, Maliel!” It’s always exciting when two angels have the same thought because then they can understand each other better. “I was pondering and just happened to turn my eyes towards earth, and you wouldn’t believe what I saw!”

“What? What!” I asked excitedly. It’s always thrilling to understand new things.

“Do you remember Sarah?”

“Of course! She was such a pretty angel. How’s earth life treating her, anyway?”

“I saw her . . . and she was just a little girl! I’m going to have so much fun teasing her about that when she returns! ‘Where’s your bottle, Sarah?’ I’ll ask. ‘Isn’t it your nappy time?’”

“Oh, you be nice to her! She’s a good angel! What was she doing, anyway?”

“The Children tend to get a little bit rebellious when they leave the Before,” you chuckled. “Sarah was staring right at the sun, even though her mortal mother had told her not to.”

“Why was she doing a crazy thing like that?” I asked in bewilderment.

“Maliel, she is just a little girl now. She doesn’t remember things like common sense that she knew in the Before. Oh, you should have seen how cute she looked! As she stared at the sun her eyes started to water and she squinted so hard I thought her face would turn inside out! Then I suddenly realized that that’s exactly how the Savior is. When I see Him, when I try to understand what He is and how much He loves all of us, I have to squint spiritually just like Sarah had to squint when she gazed right at the sun!”

“Ooooo . . . that’s good,” I said. “I think you’ll be a poet when you have your turn on earth. Anyway, I’ll meet you here tomorrow and we’ll go and see the Great One cast the moneychangers out of the temple again. It was so fun to watch Him do that the first time!”

“You are amused at other people’s misfortune, Maliel?” you said, pretending to be disappointed in me.

“Hey! You’re the one who’s going to tease poor Sarah when she returns to the Before!” I reminded you. Smiling, we both said good night.

I had a strange dream that night that the Pharisees were forcing Sarah to stare at a green palm leaf. I always have weird dreams like that. Suddenly I woke up to find you standing over me, half shaking, half strangling me as I lay in my bed.

“Maliel, are you ever going to be on time to anything in your whole pre-earth life?” you asked, clearly annoyed. “You overslept!”

“Wha?” I questioned incoherently. I wasn’t quite awake yet.

“Maliel! We’ve missed the second cleansing of the temple! You overslept again!”

“Oh!” I moaned, now fully awake and able to appreciate how disappointed I was. “I never oversleep! Why didn’t I wake up on time this morning? Of all the days to sleep in!”

“Well, it’s ok,” you said. “We can still go see the Great One. The Sacred City is on the dark side of earth, though. It’s dinner time there.”

“Is anything exciting scheduled to happen to the Master at dinner time on Monday?” I asked, hoping we could still see some of the action.

“Nothing that I know of,” you said, trying your best to conceal your disappointment. “But that’s ok. It’s always exciting to see Him, even if He isn’t doing anything very interesting.”

“Humm,” I pondered as I got out of bed. “I wonder what white robe I should wear today.”

“They all look exactly the same!” you protested. “It hardly matters.”

“Oh, yeah! Well what are we waiting for, anyway?” I teased. “I bet I can beat you to the Sacred City!”

We both dashed for earth, and, of course, I won.

The Sacred City was dark and the streets were quiet. I was amazed that the same city that just yesterday had been teeming with the disciple-Children praising the Great One could be so empty and so silent now. We went to the place where Jesus usually slept, but He wasn’t there, so we sped off to Bethany where He had friends.

“Oh, look!” you said. “There He is! But where’s the crowd that’s always following Him? Where are His disciples?”

“Man,” I added. “I can’t even remember the last time I saw the Savior alone. How strange!”

He was walking the dark streets of Bethany heading for the market district. His hair swayed softly in the hushed spring breeze and His eyes were pensive and peaceful. Most were in their houses enjoying the evening meal, but the Great One seemed content to stroll along quietly, even though He must have been awfully hungry.

“He must be going to buy some food for His disciples,” you said. “Let’s go talk with Him.”

“Wait just a second . . . I want to see what will happen. Let’s just watch from a distance.”

A young man soon came by, confident and tall. He was wearing a fancy-looking robe and walked quickly through the streets of Bethany, no doubt late for something as young men of all ages always are. As he brushed by the Master he glanced impulsively into His eyes. He didn’t return His smile or even nod; after all, he was far too busy to talk to any ordinary man, even if that ordinary man was Jehovah, the God of heaven and earth.

“Did you see that?” I asked, astonished. “Doesn’t he even remember? Couldn’t he tell who that stranger in the street was? He didn’t even return His smile!”

“I’m happy we decided to watch from a distance, Maliel. This is really interesting.”

An old woman with beautiful white hair passed by Him next. Her arthritis made it difficult for her to walk with the ease and confidence of the young man, but her painful strides were somehow dignified anyway. With every step she forced one foot in front of the other, staring at the ground as she went. As she passed Him she lifted her head and glanced briefly at His smiling face, but then quickly returned her gaze to the cobble-stones of the street beneath. Then, as if she recognized Him, the woman looked again into His eyes.

“Oh! Look! She remembers Him! She must see the light of the Father shining in His eyes!”

But then she looked back down at the ground and passed by without even saying hello.

“What are these Children thinking?” I asked in amazement. “Don’t they even know who He is? He is the Great One, the Atoner, the King of heaven and earth, and they pass Him like He’s just a carpenter’s son. They don’t even say hello! They don’t even smile!”

“I can’t believe my eyes!” you yelled.

“Me neither. Don’t they recog . . .”

“No, it’s not that, Maliel. Look! It’s Katherine Ann!”

“Katherine!” I hollered in surprise. “Why . . . she left the Before almost 20 years ago!”

Katherine was walking slowly down the street, probably thinking some great thought. She always used to do that in the Before. She had beautiful long hair and a smile that would widen every once in a while as she walked and remembered a joke or thought of a friend. As she passed the Great One she looked up and, in her very most friendly voice, said, “Good afternoon.”

But when their eyes met she suddenly stopped. They looked at each other for what seemed like at least ten seconds, just staring into each other’s eyes. Then tears began to fall on Katherine’s cheeks as she suddenly started to cry.

“Maliel, have you seen Katherine Ann at any of the Great One’s sermons? Has she ever met Him?”

“I would have recognized Katherine in a second if I’d seen her walking or talking with Him on earth. I don’t think she’s seen Him since the Before.”

The Savior put His arm around Katherine’s shoulders and they embraced. Her tears now dampened His shirt instead of her cheeks, and, as the Son of God began to weep with her, she could feel His tears as they fell one by one onto her head. She recognized Him! I couldn’t believe it!

“Oh, Maliel,” you said, “if I could show myself to Katherine Ann right now I’d hug her, too. She remembers! She recognizes the Great One because she has always tried to be just like Him!”

Katherine and the Christ parted after a few minutes. She’d probably never again see Him, never again hug Him, until after they both returned to the Before, but I didn’t doubt for a moment that she’d still feel His spiritual arms around her always just as she had since even before they met in the streets of Bethany.

“Maliel,” you asked me after we had returned to the Before. “What if you had passed through the Veil and you walked by the Great One. Do you think you would recognize Him?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe I wouldn’t be good enough to see the spark of the Father in His eyes. But one thing I know for sure, He would recognize me. The Master would see my weaknesses and would say, ‘How are you, Maliel?’ That’s why I love Him now just as I would love Him on the streets of Bethany, if I passed Him on some dark night. He’s always there for me when I need Him the most.”

“Ooooo . . . that’s good,” you said. “I think you’ll be a poet when you have your turn on earth.”

“Where have I heard that before?” I asked, smiling. We were always best friends, you and I.

The next day we entered the Lord’s temple, but we missed watching Him confound the Children who didn’t remember because . . . uh . . . well, there was a traffic jam! Yeah, that’s it. There were so many angels trying to get down to earth that . . . uh . . . we couldn’t all fit at once. It had nothing to do with my sleeping habits. I woke up at five that morning.

We got there just in time to see Him talking with the party-pooping Pharisees. He was sitting quietly on the sun-bleached stone steps near the entrance to His temple as all the “wise” men of Judah stood around Him. He wore a peaceful look on His face, but the Pharisees didn’t seem so happy.

“Yes!” I said. “You can tell just by the look on those Pharisees’ faces that they’re being confounded!”

“Let’s move a little closer,” you suggested, chuckling quietly. “I want to be able to hear what the Savior is saying.”

“Master, what’s the greatest commandment in the law?” a particularly snide looking Pharisee with a bushy, red beard asked.

It always bothered me when they called Him Master because I knew they never meant it. It bothered me even more when they asked really dumb questions that any angel who knew even a little bit about the Plan could answer.

“Oh, come on,” I yelled, even though I knew the Pharisee couldn’t hear me. “If you’re going to ask the Great One a question, at least make it a hard one. I could ask a million questions trickier than that!”

“Whose side are you on, anyway, Maliel?” you asked, a little bit surprised.

“Oh. Sorry. I forgot.”

“The first commandment is this,” the Messiah started. “You should love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, and mind. The second one is a lot like it: you should love your neighbor as yourself. Anything that is in the law and anything that the prophets have ever said comes from these two commandments.”

“Wow,” I said in amazement. “Think how much easier it would have been for our friend Moses if he’d known there were only two instead of ten!”

“So you think it’s okay to steal from your neighbors and lie to your friends as long as you still love them?”

“Man, earth life isn’t going to be as difficult as I thought.”

“Maliel!” you protested.

“I know, I know. I was just kidding. Why does the Great One even need to tell the earth-bound Children that they should love each other? Why, any angel -- even the ones who spend all of their time daydreaming instead of studying the Plan -- could tell you that you should love others.”

“Most of them don’t remember anything, Maliel. Can you imagine what that would be like? Why, only the really great ones can figure out on their own that they should love each other. Most of the others hate even when their Redeemer comes down to them and says as plain as could be that they should love one another.”

“It seems like it must be crazy down there,” I said in amazement. “I wonder what it’s like to be earth-bound. I sure am happy you’re going down there first so I can see how you handle it.”

What is it like, anyway? The other day as you were taking that history test I couldn’t help but think you were going to lose it. You spent ten minutes on problem number sixteen and then put down the wrong answer. I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry! We were there when Napoleon conquered France -- don’t you remember? Anyway, if a simple history test is that crazy, I’m afraid to think what the more serious stuff must be like.

The Pharisees finally gave up trying to trick the Son of God and left in a huff as Pharisees always do. The Great One began to walk slowly toward the other steps near the temple where He would have a good view of the Court of the Women. The sun shone brightly overhead, and the light bouncing off the white stone of Herod’s Temple gave the whole place a sort of Celestial look. All the disciple-Children who hadn’t left quietly followed Him as if they sensed that something important was about to happen. The Prince of Peace sat down on the steps and watched the trumpet-shaped boxes near the Court where people were placing their money offerings. He began to weep.

“Why do you think He’s crying?” you asked in a whisper.

“I’m not sure. Maybe He’s sad because only a few of the Children recognize Him. Why, if you were ever to forget me my heart would break.”

After a few minutes the Savior stopped weeping, but, strangely, the tears on His cheeks didn’t dry. He slowly raised His head and stared off into the distance. All the disciple-Children quickly turned to see what He was watching and became confused when all they saw was a whole bunch of the Children placing money into the trumpets.

One of the contributors, a heavy-set man wearing very fancy clothes, led a thin, ashen-faced servant who carried on his back an enormous bag full of coins. The rich man’s shifty eyes were rapidly looking from the right to the left as he tried to find someone in the crowd he knew. Confidently, he waltzed up to the nearest trumpet. I don’t even think he knew what the money in that trumpet was for! Was he giving to the poor so that he could ease the suffering of others? Was he giving to the temple so that he could glorify Jehovah who sat unseen on the steps only a dozen yards away? Who knows -- and why should he care, anyway? After all, he wasn’t there to help anyone but himself! He wanted only to show everyone how rich he was.

“Pour my huge sack of money into that trumpet,” he commanded his servant in a very loud voice.

“Why, if it isn’t my good friend Aneeijah?” another thin looking man said slyly as he approached the man with the servant and the bag. “And how much are you contributing today?”

“You’d like to know, wouldn’t you, Baaliel? I’m sure it’s at least twice what you’re paying.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. I’m contributing three bags of money. You seem to have only one.”

The two of them began to yell at each other, but the Great One didn’t seem disturbed. His eyes were focused on one of the more distant trumpets. All of the disciple-Children turned to see.

There they saw a young widow dressed in the traditional clothes of mourning. Oh how she had adored her husband! They had met at the synagogue four years earlier when she was eighteen, and she had loved him even more than herself ever since. Because the Great One had blessed them with success, her husband had taken the person he loved most with him to the Court of Women every week to place money in the trumpets for the poor, even up until the last week, two years ago, just before his death. He had set aside some money for her just in case, but, even so, without his support it hadn’t lasted very long. She kept visiting the court every week, placing money into the trumpets as a way of remembering him, and now she stood there for the last time. Her money had finally run out, save for a tiny offering of two mites. Instead of keeping them in a huge bag, the young widow clutched the two little coins in her right hand so hard that her knuckles turned white. Quietly, she slipped up to one of the trumpets and placed the money there, and then left quickly without a word, not even realizing that the Savior and His disciple-Children had been watching her.

The Master’s eyes didn’t move from the place she had stood, even after the young widow left. He stared blankly at the trumpet that contained her sacred money, her holy contribution. All eyes turned to Him because He hadn’t said anything for some time.

“That poor widow has given more to the treasury than anyone else,” He said emotionally as a solitary tear rolled down his left cheek. “The rich gave bags full of money and then returned to their homes and to the many more bags that they withheld, but that widow, even though she was poor, gave everything she had.”

Without another word, the great Jehovah arose and left the temple grounds. Most of the disciple-Children stayed in the Sacred City, but the Savior walked on to Bethany.

“I sure wish we used money in the Before,” I told you. “I have a sudden urge to give a lot of it away.”

“Oh, Maliel,” you said. “It’s not the money that’s important. That widow is Celestial because she gave away everything she had. She sacrificed it all. We can do that, too, even though we don’t have any coins. We can sacrifice our whole selves to the Great One. After all, He’ll sacrifice His whole self for us.”

“I’m afraid to watch that,” I told you. “It’s coming up in a few days. I don’t know if I can bear to see the Redeemer suffering.”

“That’s the most important event of this whole week, Maliel,” you said in a comforting voice. “It’d be silly to watch the whole thing and miss the climax. We’ll be together. I’ll help you.”

“Thank goodness for friends like you,” I said. “I don’t know what I’m going to do when it’s your turn to go to earth and I’m left all alone.”

“You won’t be alone, Maliel,” you said as you touched my shoulder. “We’ll always be friends, even when I can’t remember you.”

We smiled at each other for a few seconds, and then you said, “Anyway, we better head off for Bethany or we’ll miss the Master’s anointing.”

The city seemed awfully busy that evening as everyone was getting ready for the Passover Feast; over three million Jewish-Children had come to the Holy City for the celebration, and many slept in nearby Bethany. People rushed from house to house, gathering together family and friends, and dozens of lambs were being sold in the market place. Their bleats seemed to spread throughout the entire city, mingling with the sounds of the men and the women and the little ones who played hide-and-go-seek in the alley ways. I really wanted to stop and play with those little kids, but you said we had to “stay focused.” Anyway, the Great One was walking along the side of the street watching the Children prepare to celebrate the time He delivered them from the Egyptians when suddenly a wise looking Pharisee approached Him.

“Oh, great,” I said sarcastically. “Another one of them.”

“Maybe this one won’t be so bad, Maliel,” you joked. “Stop being such a pessimist!”

“Hello, Simon,” the Lord said in His naturally friendly voice. Simon’s face was rough and pock-marked, but the Messiah, unlike most of the other earth-bound Children, didn’t seem to care so much. He was always good at looking past physical appearances.

“How are you?” He asked, real concern in His voice.

“I am fine,” Simon said curtly. “Would you and some of your disciples join me for supper this evening?”

“Don’t fall for it, Great One!” I shouted. “He only wants a chance to watch you so he can accuse you somehow.”

“Be quiet, Maliel,” you whispered. “He’s the Son of God, remember? He knows that already.”

“We’d be honored, Simon,” the Master said. “Where’s your home?”

The Pharisee led them to a large house near one of the city’s gates and asked them to come in. The door opened immediately into a medium-sized room built a step lower than the rest of the house, furnished with comfortable couches surrounding a wooden table with plates and cups. Simon sat before he invited his guests to be seated.

“What’s that Pharisee doing?” I asked, amazed at His rudeness. “The Jews always kiss their guests when they come for dinner, and they always give them water to wash their feet and oil to anoint their heads.”

The Savior didn’t seem bothered by Simon’s lack of respect. He reclined at the table and tried His best to make pleasant conversation.

“How’s your wife, Simon?” He asked, smiling.

“Fine,” he said abruptly, and then, in the same breath, “Servant, bring in the meat.”

As they were eating you suddenly noticed a small figure at the door. It was a woman, rather beautiful, but very frail looking. She was very slender and stood a good foot shorter than Jesus the Christ, but there was something big about her anyway. Her hair flowed down to her waist and her chin quivered slightly. Though they were pretty, something seemed unusual about her eyes; I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

“How strange,” you said. “Women usually don’t enter uninvited when a meal is being eaten.”

“What are you, sexist?” I jokingly accused you.

“No! No, not at all,” you defended yourself. “It’s just the custom.”

We both stopped laughing when we realized that the woman’s eyes were peculiar because of their color: red, from crying. She came quickly into the room and seated herself near the Lord, nearly spilling the alabaster box of ointment she cradled in her arms. For months the woman had saved her money, sometimes giving up even her evening meals, all so she could afford to buy spices regal enough for her King. Sin had scarred her soul, and, though she had longed to approach her Master that she might beg His forgiveness, fear had restrained her. Only now that she had purchased the expensive salve, only now that she could treat Him with the respect she knew He deserved, did she feel like she could come to Him. Without any hesitation, she immediately poured the ointment on his head.

Simon looked at her incredulously. Who was this lower-class woman who had entered his house uninvited? A look of disgust was written plainly on his face, and we angels could see it written on his spirit, too.

The woman knelt near the Great One and let her tears fall upon His feet. She rocked back and forth slowly, as if suffering from some intense emotional agony. Carefully, she let down her hair and began to wipe His feet with it, stroking quickly at first, but then more slowly as it became harder and harder for her to see through the salty tears in her eyes. She kissed His feet and poured more ointment on them, all the time crying uncontrollably.

Some of the disciple-Children saw it and were bothered. They were always good-hearted, but sometimes they didn’t understand things.

“Why are you letting her waste that ointment?” they asked the Great One, “She could have sold it for more than three hundred pence and given the money to the poor.”

Jesus wasn’t angry at them. “Why do you trouble her?” He asked. “She is kind to me. You’ll always have the poor with you, and you should help them as best you can, but I won’t be here much longer. She pours this ointment on my body for my burial.”

Simon was still disgusted, even after the Master had spoken. “If He were a prophet,” the Pharisee thought to himself, “He’d know that the woman touching Him is a sinner.”

“Simon,” the Son of God said in a loving voice, even though He knew what the Pharisee was thinking, “there is something I must tell you. Once there was a creditor who had two debtors. The first one owed him five hundred pence, and the other owed him only fifty. When they couldn’t pay their debt, the creditor forgave them both. Which of them do you think will love the creditor the most?”

Beads of sweat were forming on Simon’s forehead. He knew the Savior was about to rebuke him.

“Well,” Simon said nervously, “I suppose it would be the one who owed the creditor the most money.”

“You are right,” the Master said as He placed His hand gently on the woman’s upper back. “Simon, do you see this woman? When I came into your house, you didn’t give me any water for my feet, but she has washed my feet with her tears and wiped them with the hairs of her own head. You didn’t give me a kiss, but this woman hasn’t stopped kissing my feet since first she entered your home. You didn’t give me oil for my head, but this woman has anointed my feet with precious ointment. Her sins, which are many, are forgiven because she has repented and has come unto me, and loved me. But to whom little is forgiven, the same loves but a little.”

Jesus then turned His face to the woman who was staring sadly at the floor. He gently removed His hand from her back and placed it under her chin, raising her head slowly so that they were looking right into each others eyes.

“Your sins are forgiven,” He softly whispered. “Your faith has saved you. Go in peace.”

A smile grew on her face as her tears of remorse were replaced by different sorts of tears. She kept staring into the Lord’s eyes for a good minute, and then rose quietly to her feet and hurried out the door. After she had left, the Great One addressed His disciples as they sat in the house of Simon the Pharisee.

“Wherever my gospel will be preached in the whole world,” He whispered, “the things that this woman has done will be told, and all will remember her.”

He quickly arose and left Simon’s house without uttering another word.

“Where’s Judas?” I asked as all the disciples followed after their Master. “Shouldn’t he be here?”

“Maliel,” you said, teary-eyed, “he has just betrayed the Savior to the Sanhedrin for thirty pieces of silver, the price of a slave.”

A coldness ran over my shoulders and fell to my feet as my chest tightened uncontrollably. “Then the end has really begun?” I asked, as my eyes became wet, too.

“The end started before the world was, Maliel, when the First Born first presented the Plan,” you whispered. “We knew this was coming.”

Even as you uttered those brave words you were shaking at the thought of the Lamb’s betrayal and suffering.

“Come on, Maliel,” you said as you placed your right arm around my shoulders. “Let’s go home.”

I didn’t sleep at all that night because I couldn’t stop thinking about the Great One and what He was about to do. You seemed pleasantly surprised the next morning when you saw that I was awake and ready to go right when you came for me.

“Are you all set for another day, Maliel?” you asked. “Today the Lord will teach His disciples.”

“Sounds great!” I said. I get really hyper -- and I do mean really hyper -- when I’m tired. “I bet I can beat you to earth come on let’s go!” I said as I rushed towards the Sacred City.

“Oh great,” you called from behind. “You didn’t sleep much last night, did you, Maliel?”

The Mount of Olives was so beautiful that morning. The sun overhead bathed the entire hill in white light, and the birds sang a sweet tune in E-flat. At the base of the mountain there was a quaint garden called Gethsemane, but the Great One wasn’t there. Not yet, at least. Instead He sat quietly with His disciples on a rock at the very peak, wearing His hallmark smile. His followers had seated themselves in a circle around their Master, and we joined them there, placing ourselves right in front of Him so that we could hear His every word. I couldn’t stop bouncing my leg and squirming as we listened, and you gave me a crusty every time you noticed.

“I need to speak with you,” the Master Teacher was saying, “for I will soon have to leave you, and you will have to carry my gospel to the whole world.”

All the apostles were very solemn looking as they sat in the circle around the Savior. James had his elbows on his knees and held his head in his hands, gazing fiercely in the Great One’s direction. They were all watching him intensely.

“John,” Jesus asked, “why have I come among you? Why have I established my gospel in this place?”

For a whole minute no one said a word; the apostles often sat silently and pondered together. John’s eyes narrowed and his forehead wrinkled a little bit as it always does when he is thinking.

“Master,” he began, slowly, “you have given us your words because you love us and want us to follow you towards happiness.”

“Blessed are you, John.” the Lord said with a smile on His face. “You have spoken the truth.”

The Great One then turned to Matthew and asked, “Matthew, what is glory?”

Again all the apostles were silent for a minute or two, after which Matthew spoke up.

“Many think glory comes from money and possessions,” Matthew said, looking around the room at all the apostles, “but I don’t understand how that could be. After all, what good are shekels and camels after we die? History forgets even the most wealthy of men.”

He swallowed, and then continued, “Others think that glory comes from proving that they’re smarter than everyone else, but I think that’s wrong, too. In the end, the wise men are forgotten as well.”

Then Matthew looked right into his Savior’s eyes and said, “Master, glory comes from kindness. Glory comes from lifting others up and making them better. Those who help others will never be forgotten, for their deeds are recorded by the angels in heaven.”

We angels wrote down what he’d said, making sure he got the heavenly brownie points he deserved.

“Blessed are you, Matthew,” the Lord said with a smile on His face. “You have spoken the truth.”

He then turned and addressed the whole quorum.

“God’s glory is just like men’s,” He said, tossing a stone in Peter’s direction. “That’s why I’ve come here, like John said, to show you all the way to happiness. The Father’s happiness -- His glory -- comes when His Children are glorified and exalted. He wants nothing more than to see each of you sitting with me on His right hand.”

“After all, wouldn’t any good father want the best for his children?” the Father’s Son continued. “Don’t each of you want the best for your little ones? I know you do, because you’ve told me. That’s practically all Bartholomew ever talks about!”

The group burst into laughter. Bartholomew was always talking about his son, the “cutest little guy ever made.”

“He gets his good looks from his father,” Bartholomew had once told the Savior as they sat together near the well outside of Bethany.

The Great One had placed His hand under Bartholomew’s chin and turned his face, first to the right, and then to the left, as if examining him.

“Or his mother,” the Master had said, removing His hand from the disciple’s chin and punching Bartholomew affectionately on the shoulder as both burst into laughter.

“My gospel, which you have been called to preach to all the world,” the Lord continued once the disciples had stopped chuckling, “shows the way to that exaltation, that ultimate happiness. The Father sent me because He loves each of you more than anything else in all of creation. More, even, than He loves Himself,.”

“Can men understand that love?” Peter asked. He always wanted to understand the Mysteries of the Kingdom.

“In a coming day I will atone for all of you,” the Messiah said as tears formed in His eyes. The apostles didn’t really understand what the atonement was because the Great One hadn’t talked about it much. “I will suffer infinitely for all the millions of God’s children that were ever created. I will even die for them. But this I say to you, that you might understand how much God loves each one of you. If in all creation there were not millions of Children but only one, only one Child ever created, I would still suffer infinitely and die for that one Child. Each of you are of infinite worth in the sight of God, and I will suffer infinitely for each so that you can all return to the Father.”

“Do you understand, then, why you must preach my gospel to all the world?” He continued emotionally. “Can you really fathom what my gospel means? I will suffer for you so that you can come to me and accept my sacrifice and find the fullness of joy that comes from exaltation. You must spread my words to all of the Children. They must hear the good news and come to me also.”

The apostles sat for some time, silent, pondering. They didn’t understand the significance of the atonement; they wouldn’t fully appreciate the Redeemer’s words until later. Even still, they had heard the love in His voice and knew that He would do anything for them.

“Maliel, you’re leg has stopped bouncing,” you noticed with pleasure once we returned to the Before and I had collapsed on my bed.

“I’m too tired to even blink,” I said. “Let me sleep for a few hours.”

“Maliel, it’s only 5:00! Didn’t the Great One once council us not to sleep longer than is needful?” you boomed in Gabriel’s voice. “Work! Work! Work!”

“I need to sleep!” I moaned as I threw a pillow at you.

Smiling, you turned off the light and left the room.

The next morning I woke up early -- really, this time. I guess I thought twelve hours of sleep was enough for one night.

“Today’s the big day,” you said solemnly. “Thursday. The one we’ve been waiting for from since before the world was.”

“I can’t believe it’s really here,” I added. “after all these millennia. I have a good idea! Let’s spend the entire day down in the Sacred City instead of just watching the most important events. Let’s try to pretend like we’re earth-bound and seeing it just as the earth-bound Children see it.”

“Today every event is important, Maliel,” you said. “It’s going to be a long day.”

“Oh! I better take my anti-nausea medicine then,” I remembered. “Otherwise earth will be the death of me.”

The disciple-Children had just finished eating breakfast when we arrived, and boy did they ever seem excited for the Passover feast! The Jewish-Children always killed a lamb without blemish every Passover to celebrate the time the Angel of Death, our good friend Brian, spared the first-born of the Children of Israel. The disciples looked forward to the feast like you always look forward to Thanksgiving. Oh -- by the way -- John hated peas, too. Anyway, they probably wouldn’t have been so excited had they known that their Master would soon become the ultimate Passover lamb, sacrificing himself so that the angel of death -- this time of the second, spiritual death -- would pass over those who believed.

“Where should we go to eat the Passover?” Philip, one of the twelve, asked. His eyes were wide with anticipation. Man, he looked hungry.

“Peter and John,” Jesus said, “if you’ll go into the city you’ll find a man carrying a pitcher of water. Follow him and tell him that my time on earth is almost over and I want to keep the Passover at his house with my disciples. He’ll then show you a large upper room where you can prepare for our arrival.”

The two disciples sped out the door, eager to find the man their Master was talking about so they could start eating. They entered the Sacred City and began searching for a guy with a pitcher.

“Oh, look!” John said excitedly, a gleam appearing suddenly in his eyes. “There’s a pitcher!”

“John, that’s a woman carrying it,” Peter said. “We’re looking for a man. What’s wrong with you, anyway?”

John blushed a little bit, but kept searching for the fellow Jesus had seen.

“Oh, there he is!” Peter exclaimed.

John secretly hoped that Peter had spotted another woman with a pitcher so he could get back at him for his what’s-wrong-with-you comment, but, much to John’s dismay, it was the guy they were looking for.

“Let’s follow him,” Peter continued.

The man with the pitcher was a fast walker; Peter and John had to concentrate real hard so they wouldn’t loose him in the crowd. They followed him south as he walked through the narrow streets of the upper city past Caiaphas’ palace. He finally entered a modest sized house, and the two disciples, a good fifty paces behind him, arrived and knocked on the door.

“The Master’s time on earth is almost over,” Peter said with hunger in his voice once the door opened. “He wants to keep the Passover at your house with His disciples. Is that ok?”

The man with the pitcher was balding and had a huge, round face. When Peter asked him if the Lord could dine at his house that evening a huge smile formed there and dimples appeared on his cheeks. He was a disciple-Child, too, though Peter and John hadn’t recognized him.

“I’d be honored to have Him in my home,” the man said. “I have a large upper room that He can use.”

Peter and John thanked him and entered the house. The upper room was furnished, just as Jesus had said, with a table and some couches. Though there were no windows, the cracks in the ceiling produced streams of sunlight that made beautiful patterns on the old, curled boards of the floor. The leaves of a nearby tree rustled gently in the wind, and as the branches moved over the small house the patterns on the floor danced about, as if excited by the disciple’s arrival. They began to prepare for the Passover feast just as their Rabbi had instructed them.

“Should I move the table to the middle of the room?” John asked Peter.

“Sure,” Peter responded in a distracted voice. He was preoccupied with the food.

“What about the couches? How many should I bring out?”

“John,” Peter said, looking up with a smile on his face and a piece of meat in his mouth, even though he knew he was supposed to be fasting until the Passover feast. “Can’t you make any decisions on your own? I’m keeping the flies off our food!”

“Sorry,” John chuckled. He couldn’t help but ask Peter for his opinion. Peter was the kind of guy other guys liked to follow.

That evening the Christ came with His disciples and joined Peter and John in the upper room. It was dark outside, so the beautiful images on the floor had gone to sleep; instead the room was lit by three candles that stood in the center of the table. Even though He was smiling and trying to make His disciples comfortable, we angels could tell the Great One was solemn, even sad.

All the apostles were very excited as they reclined at the table, laying down to symbolize the comfort of a people who no longer had to flee from Egyptian bondage. James, especially, was ready to tear into his food. Thomas gave the prayer.

“Heavenly Father, thank you for this day. Please bless this food that it might nourish and strengthen our . . .”

Thomas’ face suddenly turned red and his lips tightened into a straight line. He had been trying so hard to break his habit of saying a set prayer, but he’d forgotten.

“I’m sorry,” he said, very embarrassed. The Great One’s understanding smile set him at ease. “Let me try again.”

“Heavenly Father, we thank you for your Son and for the good news that He brings to all the world,” Thomas started. “Please bless us that we might be able to spread His gospel to all of your children, and please bless us that, as we eat in remembrance of your mercy on that night in Egypt so long ago, we might gain increased reverence and love for your infinite kindness. In Jesus’ name, Amen.”

The disciples quickly said amen and then began devouring their food, frantically asking their neighbors to pass the unleavened cakes and bitter herbs. They didn’t understand the full significance of that feast which, for millennia to come, would be known to all of Christendom as the Last Supper. I suspect their table manner would have been a good deal better had they known.

“That was a fine prayer, Tom,” the Savior whispered, leaning over so that the disciple could hear Him. “One day people will eat bread and water every week and will remember God’s mercy, just as you did in your prayer, but then they will look to my sacrifice instead of Egypt as God’s greatest act of love.”

Thomas didn’t fully understand what his Messiah was saying, but, weeks later, he would remember His words and fully appreciate their significance.

After the meal all the disciples sat in silence, watching their Master. No longer worrying about hunger, they turned their attention to more spiritual things. One by one most of them noticed that, though He was doing His best to smile and talk with them, there was sadness in the Savior’s eyes. It troubled them that He hadn’t eaten much at the feast, but had instead sat quietly, thinking.

Jesus silently arose before them. They all watched in bewilderment; after all, He usually took an opportunity such as this one to teach His disciples. Why was He leaving? The wooden door creaked as he departed, and they were much relieved when it creaked again a few minutes later with His return. He was carrying a small towel, a pitcher of water, and a basin.

Christ fell to His knees and placed the metal basin on the ground directly before Him. In front of all the disciples, He tipped the pitcher and cautiously poured the water into the container, taking special care not to spill any onto the floor. The disciples looked very confused. Why was the Son of God kneeling before them? A few of them got on their knees also, but the Great One asked them to return to their seats. He took the basin, now heavy with water, and placed it in front of Andrew’s feet. He then began to wash his soles in similitude of the great soul-washing He would undertake in but a few hours at Gethsemane. Andrew seemed very uncomfortable; Jesus was his Master, and He was washing his feet! It didn’t seem right somehow.

After a few minutes, the Lord dried the first disciple’s feet with the towel and moved the basin in front of James. He repeated Himself, washing James’ feet with the water and, afterwards, drying them. John was next, then Philip, Bartholomew, Thomas, Matthew, the other James, Lebbaeus, and Simon.

The Savior of the world then set the basin before Judas Iscariot, the world’s most notorious traitor. The basin resonated with a kind of hollow, metal sound as it hit the wooden floor, as if some distant bell was announcing the impending betrayal. The sadness in His eyes, which some of the disciples had noticed earlier, was now apparent to them all. His hands moved slowly and touched the back of Judas’ heel. He took his feet and placed them gently in the basin.

“Why does the Great One honor Judas?” I asked, confused. “Doesn’t He know that he has already betrayed Him to the Sanhedrin?”

“Of course He knows, Maliel,” you said. “Jesus is showing His disciple-Children that the greatest of all is the servant of all. Sometimes we have to serve even those who hate and forsake us.”

Christ dried Judas’ feet and placed them gently on the floor, moving on to Peter. The sadness in His eyes was still present, but it seemed lessened a bit. He reached for Peter’s feet, but Peter withdrew them quickly. The senior apostle had watched the eyes of each of his brothers as the Master had washed their feet, and each time feelings of incredible love stirred in his heart. No one was worthy of the service the Savior so humbly rendered, he thought to himself, but if anyone was close to being worthy, these wonderful men were. Peter felt undeserving, though, when Jesus knelt before him, for it is far easier to see the good in others than it is to see the good in yourself.

“Lord,” Peter asked, “why do you wash my feet?”

“You can’t understand what I’m doing now, Peter,” the Savior said as He gazed up at Peter’s face, “but you’ll understand later. Trust me.”

“I can never let you wash my feet, Master!” Peter cried. “I should be washing your feet like the woman at the house of Simon the Pharisee.”

“Peter,” Jehovah said lovingly, “just as I will wash the dirt from your feet, so, too, will I wash the sins from your soul. But in both cases you must let me make you clean, for if you are not made clean through my sacrifice you cannot dwell with me forever.”

Peter didn’t really understand what his Master meant by the washing away of sins, but he knew that he wanted nothing more than to dwell with the Great One forever.

“Lord,” Peter said, smiling through tear-filled eyes, “not my feet only, but also my hands and my head.”

The Savior grinned a bit and continued His work. After He had finished, He slowly arose and returned to His place.

“Do you know what I have done for you?” He asked after He was seated. “If your Lord and Master has washed your feet, shouldn’t you also wash each other’s feet? The servant is not greater than his lord; neither he that is sent greater than he that sent him.”

The Christ’s gaze then lowered to the floor as a melancholy thought, like an invading army, entered unwelcome the kingdom of His soul. He knew that one of the twelve, one who ought to be a servant in the Kingdom of God, had set himself above his King.

“One of you will forsake me,” He said in a voice just loud enough for the twelve to hear.

Immediately eleven of the twelve began to ask, “Is it I, Lord?” Most men would accuse the people around them, but the twelve couldn’t bring themselves to blame each other. Jesus had taught them well to love one another.

Judas sat silently and watched the others, confused by the looks of pain on their faces. His was a disconnected, unconcerned expression, as if he weren’t really a part of the greatest betrayal in the history of mankind but was instead only a spectator. At one point I even noticed a smile on his face, as if he found the anxiety around him amusing, as if he thought his brethren’s love for their Master was a little bit excessive. After all, He was only a man, right? The others practically worshiped Him! The traitor, though uncaring, was concerned that his silence might betray him, so, in a voice of false sincerity, he spoke up with the others.

“Is it I, Master?” he asked, the lie almost visible on his breath.

“Ask Him who it is,” Peter whispered to John, who lay near the Savior.

Frightened at what the answer might be, John slowly raised himself so that his face was right next to the Master’s ear.

“Who is it?” he murmured, a slight quiver in his voice.

Jesus took a piece of bread and dipped it in His wine. A small dribble fell on the table as He moved the morsel closer to His mouth, pausing briefly before He ate.

“I give my bread to he who will forsake me,” He whispered in a voice so quiet that only angel ears could hear it.

Then with His left hand the Lord gently took hold of Judas’ wrist and brought it close to Him. The traitor didn’t resist. He moved the bread away from His own mouth and placed it slowly into His friend’s palm, pausing slightly before He returned His hand to His side.

“Do what you have planned quickly, Judas,” He asked in a voice that shook with sorrow.

None of the other disciples realized what the Great One had just done because they hadn’t heard what He had whispered. They all thought that, because Judas handled all the money, their Lord had asked him to buy food or give something to the poor.

Judas looked directly into the his Master’s eyes. The next time he would see those loving eyes He would betray them to the unbelieving-Children, the ones who wanted nothing more than to see those same eyes shut in death forever. Without removing his gaze from his Master’s face, the traitor popped the morsel into his mouth, arose quickly, and left into the darkness of the night.

The Savior’s countenance brightened a bit once he had departed.

“I’m happy that I’ve been able to eat the Passover with you before I suffer,” He said, turning to His apostles, “for this will be the last I’ll eat before by death.”

Without taking His eyes off His friends, Jesus reached for some bread left over from the Passover feast. Falling to His knees, He bowed His head and began to pray. It was always incredible to hear Him pray; He spoke like the Father was right there in the room with Him. Perhaps He was.

“Father, we ask you in my name to make this bread holy for all those who will eat it,” He uttered. “Help them as they eat to remember my body and to make covenants with you, their Eternal Father, that they will take my name upon them and always remember me so that my Spirit can always be with them. Amen.”

Christ then returned to His seat and offered the bread to His dearest disciples. “Eat this,” He said. “This represents my body.”

One by one the disciples took a piece of the bread and ate, passing the remainder on to their brethren.

“Why do we remember His body?” they thought, not understanding. Even so, they could tell how important this was to their friend, so it became important to them, too.

Next Jesus reached for an empty cup. He filled it with wine and, after adding a little bit of water, once again fell to His knees.

“Father,” He began, “we ask you in my name to make this wine holy for all those who will drink it. Help them as they drink to remember my blood which I will shed for them and to make covenants with you, their Eternal Father, that they will take my name upon them and always remember me so that my Sprit can always be with them. Amen.”

Returning to His seat, the Redeemer then reached for the cup and gave it to John who sat nearest Him.

“Take this,” He said, “and drink it, every one of you. This represents my blood of the new testament, which I will shed for many that their sins might be forgiven.”

Jesus smiled at each of His disciples as they drank the wine. Once each had finished, the Son of God again fell to His knees, this time inviting the twelve -- now the eleven -- to join Him.

“Father,” He said, “I have made myself known to these disciple-Children who you have given me. I have done as you have commanded and have given them my sacrament. They know that all the things I have taught them are from you, and they have written your words on their own souls and have believed that you sent me to help them understand your will. Father, I know you are just; I’m not praying for the world, that you might ignore the sins and hatred there. But please, Father, protect those of the Children who you have given me. Protect the ones who believe and follow our words, for I love them, and all that I have, even all my disciples, are also yours, Father.”

“I’ve tried my best to guide them while I’ve been here on earth,” the Great One continued, “but I must soon return to you, and these poor Children will have no Master that they can see and hear with their physical eyes and ears. Please protect them, Father. Please bless them that they will be one in spirit just as you and I are one, so that the distrust and hatred that so often destroy the works of men will not destroy my work, which is of God.”

“I’ve lost none of them except Judas,” the Great One said, emotion building in His voice. “The scriptures have been fulfilled, and now I’m ready to return to you. Please bless my Children with happiness, for I have given them your words and, because of your words, the world has hated them just as it has hated me. We are not of this world, Father. I understand that you can’t take my disciples from this place, but please, Father, keep them from evil. Make them holy through your words so that they can stand strong against a world that hates them.”

“You’ve sent me into the world,” He said, tears now streaming down His cheeks, “so that I could give them your words. I’m now sending them into the world, just as you sent me, so that they can spread your words to all the Children. It is for their sakes that I have come here, Father. Please. Purify them. In my name, Amen.”

As the group of men arose from their knees each saw that all the others were crying. How the Great One loved them! How He loves all His Children who place their Master above all else that the world offers them! They each hugged the Savior and thanked Him for His prayer on their behalf, His prayer on behalf of all the Children, throughout all the ages, who would choose to follow Him.

“Come, follow me,” He said as He placed His hand on the cold, iron handle of the upper room’s only door. “We still have so much to do before the end.”

The group of men left the house and walked northward through the Sacred City’s dark streets, chilled a bit by the night air even though the breeze was strangely warm. They passed the Roman theater built on the upper city’s eastern side and walked onward towards the Hasmonean Palace near the first north wall, a beautiful building that towered in the distance like a mighty sentinel keeping watch over the southwest corner of the Holy City. The sounds of the aqueduct’s rushing water reached the disciples ears as they entered the western portico of the temple precinct and turned left towards the north, and John, staring at the sky above, thought it might rain

Jesus and His disciples then left the city through the golden gate and carefully crossed the brook Cedron, a dangerous precipice on the eastern side of Jerusalem. In silence they entered a garden called Gethsemane, a quiet place at the base of the Mount of Olives where Jesus of Nazareth would atone for the sins of mankind.

“Please sit here and rest,” He asked His followers once they had walked a few minutes among the olive trees. “I must pray to my Father.”

The sun had set and the whole garden seemed bathed in darkness. With a simple movement of His hand, Christ motioned Peter, James, and John to follow Him further into the black night. They walked silently along a dim path through the olive trees, thinking quietly to themselves. Peter was very worried about the Great One. Why had He been so sad at the Passover Feast? Why was He now leading them through this Garden so late at night? The apostle felt like he needed to comfort his friend, but, no matter how hard he thought, he couldn’t come up with the words to console Him. Jesus turned suddenly toward Peter, and in that moment the disciple realized that history would not record the sorrow of the upper room; it was Gethsemane that would be remembered. The Lord’s chin quivered and His forehead was wrinkled in sadness. His eyebrows were lowered and, when Peter looked into His eyes, he thought he saw all the heartaches of eternity there.

“I’ve never experienced this kind of sorrow, Peter,” He told His friend in low, hushed tones. “I need your support now more than ever. Please, sit here and watch with me. I’ll be only a stone’s throw over there, praying to our Father.”

Even as they were sitting, Peter, James, and John didn’t take their eyes off the Savior. They watched as He turned, slowly, even reluctantly, it seemed to me, and left them.

I’ll forever remember that dark night in Gethsemane. A warm spring breeze gently rustled the leaves of the olive trees that surrounded you and I as we watched. The ground sloped gently downward towards the west, toward the Sacred City, and was covered with the dead, fallen leaves of the previous fall. If you concentrated really hard, you could almost smell the salty scent of the Mediterranean which lied also to the west, beyond the garden where the Son of God would suffer. We both gazed at the Great One who knelt about a hundred feet from Peter, James, and John. Like the leaves that surrounded Him, He too would fall from His rightful place on high this night so that He could take upon Himself the sorrows and sins of men.

“Father,” Jesus plead, “if it is possible, let this cup pass from me; nevertheless, I will follow your will and not my own.”

“Maliel.” It was almost too quiet to be heard, even for an angel. I could tell by the look on your face that you had heard your name, too. “Go to Him.”

We both quietly approached our older brother and began to weep as we saw the sorrow on His face.

“Great One,” I cried. “I can’t bear to see you suffer like this.”

I buried my head in my hands and began to sob uncontrollably. My tears fell to the earth and joined the fallen leaves there, perhaps giving some seed the nutrients it needed to grow into another olive tree with leaves that would fall to the earth and remind the Children of their Master’s fall for their sakes.

You quickly ran to Him and threw your arms around His neck. “Great One,” you said through your tears, “I will suffer instead of you.”

Even as you said it, you knew it wasn’t possible. Only the First Born Lamb of God could atone for the Children, for only He was strong enough to bare the sins and sorrows of a fallen world.

You placed your head on His shoulder and let your tears fall onto His shirt, and He placed His hand, the same hand that would soon be pierced by the nail at Golgotha, behind your head and comforted you, pulling your face closely towards Him. He slowly arose and carried you over to where I lay sobbing.

“Children,” He said as He hugged us both, “your love for me has been a great comfort at a time when I needed comfort the most. Don’t cry, little ones. I must fulfill the will of the Father. I promised to sacrifice myself for the sons of men when first I presented the Plan, and now I must keep my promise.”

“Don’t worry,” He said as He picked us both up and began to walk, slowly rubbing our backs as tears of love fell from His face. “We’ll triumph in the end. I promise. Sit here, my friends. I must return to pray to our Father.”

He gently placed us on a pile of leaves about sixty feet away and then returned to Peter, James, and John, who slept about forty yards to the east.

Jesus stood near what would one day become the first First Presidency, but He didn’t wake them up. How they had tried to keep their eyes open! How they had battled sleep, that cruel woman who so often subdues, but in the end she had won, and they had fallen.

“Couldn’t you watch with me for even one hour?” He asked remorsefully as He bent down and softly touched Peter’s check. Jesus then returned quietly to His previous spot and knelt down.

“Father,” He plead, “if it is possible, let this cup pass from me; nevertheless, I will follow your will and not my own.”

The Lord then arose again and returned to Peter, James, and John, only to find them still asleep. Oh how He wanted to awake them! He knew that they couldn’t fully understand His suffering, but think what a comfort they could have been, had they been awake! He loved them so much, though, that He couldn’t bare to let them watch as He was tormented my the sins and sorrows of all the Children. They slept on.

“Father,” He pleaded when He had returned to the appointed spot, “if it is possible, let this cup pass from me; nevertheless, I will follow your will and not my own.”

Suddenly, for the first time in the Savior’s entire existence, the Father withdrew His Spirit from the Son. For a brief moment a look of incredible loneliness flashed upon the Great One’s face, as if even the God of heaven and earth was surprised at what it meant to be truly alone, but it was soon replaced by a look of infinite agony as great drops of blood formed on His brow.

I was tormented for the next four hours just watching the Lord suffer and atone for the deeds of the Children. His disciples slept nearby, unable to give Him comfort, and, for the first time, even the Father’s peace was absent.

As we watched I thought I heard the warm spring wind whispering something. What was it? What would nature have to say to her God in His moment of greatest agony? I couldn’t quite make it out at first, but then, all at once, I heard with perfect clarity.

“Here am I. Send me.”

The next day the Christ would be crucified at Golgotha and would suffer unimaginable pain as the cold, iron spikes cut into His hands and feet. He would be raised up upon the cross and the entire weight of His body would be placed upon those nails in His flesh, causing Him even more pain then the initial piercing. Even still, many had been crucified, but there was only One who could bare the pain of the ultimate, atoning sacrifice.

“He is despised and rejected of men, a man of sorrows and well acquainted with grief,” the rustling leaves above us seemed to say.

Several times you cried into the darkness, “Great One! I will stand by you! I will comfort you!” but, being in agony, He could not hear your plea.

We both knew that He had to bare this burden alone. Even still, it took all the will power we could muster to stay in the spot where He had so lovingly placed us instead of running to Him in His time of greatest need. Then, as quickly as it had begun, the Lord’s agony ended. He laid upon the ground, too weak, I thought, even to sit up, yet after a few minutes He somehow found the strength to slowly rise to His feet. He returned to Peter, James, and John and gently awakened them.

“Peter. James. John. It is done,” He said, His voice quivering, whether with emotion or exhaustion I couldn’t tell. “Come. Let’s return to the others.”

As they slowly walked Jesus lost His balance and nearly fell to the ground. John took His arm and supported Him until they had returned to the place where the other apostles quietly slept, a small, grassy mound in a clearing on the North side of the garden. The stars above represented some of the most powerful monarchs and gods of the earth: mighty Orion shown brightly there, the three stars of his belt glimmering in the dark night’s sky; Cassiopeia, the commanding queen of Ethiopia; Mars, the irate god of war. Even so, the one true God stood not in the heavens on this night, but instead upon the earth. The moon shone brightly in that spiring sky, for the Passover feast was always held concurrent with a full moon, but, strangely, it seemed to shine brighter upon the one true God who had collapsed suddenly, exhausted, upon the earth then upon those counterfeit gods who stood distantly in the heavens.

James awoke the others, and the apostles, alarmed at their Master’s condition, knelt at His side and tried to comfort Him. The lanterns and torches in the distance resembled the stars above, but rather than representing the best of all creation they represented the worst. Bartholomew was the first to notice the points of light which, after about five minutes, became a band of the chief priests and the elders with swords and staves. The Great One rose slowly to His feet and again beckoned John to support Him. The traitor stood among the antagonists.

Judas started toward the Master. His stride was not confident; it is to his credit, perhaps, that he betrayed the Son of God reluctantly. He looked into His eyes, just as he had earlier that evening at the Last Supper, and moved his head closer, closer still.

“Master.”

He kissed His cheek.

The group of high priests and elders hesitated briefly, as if they hadn’t really expected their plan to work. Was it possible that Jesus of Nazareth, the same they had sought with avarice for some weeks, stood now before them, identified by the traitor’s kiss, finally within their grasp?

“Whom do you seek?” the Savior asked quietly, a look of sorrow in His eyes, as the group before Him whispered among themselves. Why did they fear Him? Surely they recognized His fatigue -- His exhaustion. Surely they realized that He was no match for their spears and armed guards.

“Jesus of Nazareth,” one of the elders finally said, fear in his voice, surprised that the man before him, who he presumed was the Nazarene, remained, unmoving.

“I am He,” the Great One said confidently, though wearily, confirming the spokesman’s suspicion.

Rather than stepping forward to seize Him, the group cowed back in fear, looks of astonishment and dread on their faces. They had heard of the miracles this man had preformed. Couldn’t this mighty prophet strike them down if they dared to challenge Him? Couldn’t He call down the wrath of God, evoking His divine protection? They weren’t entirely sure, but few were willing to take the risk.

“Who do you seek?” Jesus again asked, perfect meekness evident in His hush voice.

“Jesus of Nazareth,” the same elder whispered after a few moments, even more intimidated now that the man before him had identified Himself.

“I’ve told you that I am He,” the Lord answered, a question in His eyes. “If you only want me, then let my disciples go their way.”

One of the chief priests, the bravest of the lot, whispered something to his companion, and immediately the high priest’s servant, a robust young man named Malthus, stepped forward to seize the Great One. He was a very intimidating fellow, the perfect example of masculinity at its best; even so, though, he was a kind-hearted man who, if not under orders from the high priest, might have been a disciple instead of an enemy. Peter didn’t understand the significance of the kiss, but, judging by the look on Malthus’ face, he knew that his Master was in grave danger. He drew his sword and swung it in the servant’s direction. A feeling of intense pain came over Malthus, and He quickly placed his hands over the place where his right ear should have been. The ear lay on the ground at his feet.

“Peter,” the Great One said, His voice a whisper because He lacked the strength to yell. “Put your sword back in your sheath. The cup my Father has given me, shouldn’t I drink it? If I so desired I could pray to my Father and twelve legions of angels would come to my defense.”

You have no idea how excited that made us angels; we were ready to defend our Master to the death. Much to our dismay, though, He didn’t call upon us that day.

Jesus slowly walked -- stumbled, really -- toward Malthus, now without John for His support. He placed His hands over Malthus’ ear and immediately he was healed.

He then turned to the chief priests and elders and asked, “Have you come for me with swords and staves? We often sat together in the temple as I taught. You didn’t seize me then.”

“Take Him, Malthus,” one of the chief priests called, but Malthus wouldn’t move. In disgust, the chief priest walked up to Jesus the Christ and took Him himself. Even a miracle couldn’t convince them. The Lord was far too weak to fight back, nor would he have defended Himself if He had had the strength of Samson, for He knew what He had to do to fulfil the Plan He had presented before the world was. The disciples fled in fear as the chief priests and elders tied His hands and feet with thick, course ropes and carried Him to the house of Annas, an influential member of the Sanhedrin and father-in-law of Caiaphas the high priest.

Annas had been high priest himself once, and, in a way, he still was, for his son-in-law had been appointed by Rome and not by the elders of the Jews. The elegance of his house proved that his position, supposedly given him by heaven, had significant earthly benefits as well. The Great One was brought into a large, central room where Annas sat in a throne-like chair. Tapestries adorned the walls and expensive rugs the floors, and servants surrounded him, caring to his every need. Two torches shone at his sides, and the yellow light reflecting off his features imparted him an almost devilish look. The smoke from the torches rose slowly into the air, giving the entire room a kind of suffocating feeling.

“Well, well,” Annas said, an air of condescension soiling his voice. “Jesus the so called Christ is finally before me that I might judge Him. Tell us, Christ, of your doctrine, so that we can all see for ourselves that you are a blasphemous liar.”

The Savior laid on the ground where the chief priests and elders had thrown Him. He couldn’t get up because of the ropes tied tightly around His wrists and ankles, nor would He have had the strength to stand for long even if He were freed.

Staring at Annas’ feet, He spoke quietly. “I taught openly in the synagogue and the temple. I haven’t said anything in secret. Ask my disciples what I have said, for they know my words.”

One of the elders, an immense man with arms and legs like the pillars of Herod’s palace, reached down and grasped the Master’s neck with his left hand. Lifting Him up, he then struck Him as hard as he could with the palm of his right hand and threw Him back down to the ground. A small stream of blood flowed from the Great One’s nose. It was the first of His blood to be spilt by the unbelieving-Children that week.

“How dare you speak to Annas that way,” the giant sneered. “Do you know who he is?”

“If I have spoken evil,” the Lamb of God whispered, “tell me what I have said. Otherwise, why do you hit me?”

“Take Him away,” Annas cried in disgust, even before the elder could respond. “I have already spoken to Caiaphas about this so-called Messiah. This problem will soon be solved.”

The chief priests and elders then carried Jesus to the palace of Caiaphas the high priest, a building even more lavish than Annas’ mansion. The rest of the chief priests, elders, and scribes, who were assembled in the main room enjoying the warmth and the company as they waited for the prisoner to arrive, immediately approached the Nazarene once He was brought to them. They kept Him bound but this time placed Him in a chair instead of letting Him lie helpless on the floor.

“What witnesses are there?” Caiaphas asked. “How can we condemn Him?”

The high priest knew full well that it was illegal to hold trials at night, but that didn’t stop Him. Twenty-three members of the Sadducean-dominated Sanhedrin sat in a semi-circle around the Savior of the world and two clerks sat before Him. The “disciples of the wise,” as the Jews liked to call them, usually spoke up for the prisoner at trials like this one, but they were strangely absent. Skipping the defense, Caiaphas moved immediately to the prosecution. One by one the chief priests and elders brought forth witnesses to testify against the Lord.

“He claims to be the Son of God,” some would testify, while others would assert that He claimed only to be a prophet.

“He says He can destroy the temple and build it again in only three days,” others would declare, while still others refuted, saying that He would not care about earthly temples because He had arrogantly made Himself a king whose kingdom, He had told them, was not of this world at all.

Caiaphas refused to recognize the witnesses as the liars they were; he was so envious of his prisoner’s power and influence over the people that he ignored the demands of justice. The chief priest continued to hear witnesses into the early hours of the morning, hoping desperately to find a number of the perjurers who would agree with each other.

The sun slowly broke over the eastern horizon, and, just as slowly, a look of tremendous frustration dawned upon Caiaphas’ face. The long night had left him tired and irritable, and the witnesses -- too stupid, it seemed, to coordinate their accusations -- hadn’t helped his disposition. He had heard enough testimony to condemn fifty men, if only the testimonies wouldn’t contradict and discredit each other!

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” he finally asked in anger, his face turning as red as the sun which now shone a few degrees above the skyline. “What are all these witnesses saying?”

But Jesus couldn’t be deceived. He knew that Caiaphas was trying to trick Him into confessing to something, but both Caiaphas and the Lord recognized that these witnesses had said nothing that the chief priests and elders could use to condemn. The Savior remained silent.

“Well, then, just tell us!” the high priest yelled, furious that the prisoner refused to speak. “Are you the Messiah, the very Son of God?”

“That’s what this is really about, isn’t it?” the Messiah whispered so that only Caiaphas could hear Him. The exhaustion from Gethsemane and the long night trial was evident in His voice. “I have just paid the price for your sins, even the ones you are now committing, if only you’ll accept my sacrifice, and yet you continue. In your deceit you couldn’t get me to say something that you could call blasphemy, so now you are asking me directly, but both you and I know, Caiaphas, that I am not a heretic.”

He then raised His voice slightly so that all in the house could hear Him.

“I am,” He said without hesitation, “and one day you will see the Son of man sitting on the right hand of power, and coming in the clouds of heaven.”

A hint of triumph flashed across Caiaphas’ face, but it was soon replaced by feigned indignation. He tore his clothes and cried in a loud voice, “He has spoken blasphemy! What further witnesses do we need? You have all heard it; what is your judgement?”

One by one each of the members of the Sanhedrin stood, beginning with the youngest.

“He is worthy of death!” each said, save for one. The Great One met Joseph of Arimathea’s gaze for a few moments and smiled quietly. He only had the courage to stand up against the false accusations of his brethren, but even his honor could not stop the impending atrocity.

Once the votes had been recorded the assembly rushed towards the Master with looks of tremendous hatred in their eyes.

“We’ll see if He’s really a prophet,” one of them sneered as he blindfolded Him. He tied the blindfold as tightly around Christ’s head as He could, and then, with all the force he could manage, He struck His temple with the palm of his right hand.

The Lord fell off His chair with that first blow. His hands were tied so He couldn’t soften the impact; His head hit hard against the stone floor of Caiaphas’ palace.

“Prophesy, Jesus,” one of the elders scoffed, “who was it that hit you?”

They were all laughing so hard that they couldn’t hear His quiet response.

“Phinehas,” He whispered, “who I knew before the world was. He loved me then.”

“Put Him back on the chair,” one of the chief priests commanded as three of the men clenched his hair and his feet, throwing him back into the seat. Once He was sitting again the same priest spit on His face.

“Tell us, Jesus,” he then derided, “who is it that spat on you?”

Again the assembly’s laughter buried the Redeemer’s response.

“Naaman,” He said quietly, “who before He came here was among the noble and great ones. Please, Naaman, repent! But a few hours ago in Gethsemane I made it possible for you to be noble and great once again.”

For several hours the brutes continued to afflict Him, not realizing that one day they would attend another of Christ’s trials. In a coming day the great Judge would hear the sinners’ case and would find them guilty of the very blasphemy with which He was accused, for they mocked even Jehovah, the same who stood tabernacled in clay and bound before them.

“Stop!” Joseph of Arimathaea pleaded after they had thus tormented Him. “Have mercy on Him! Can’t you see how weak He is?”

“Fine,” Caiaphas responded, abruptly. “I suppose this punishment is unnecessary, for we will soon have our true vengeance. Take Him to Pilate!”

The guards grabbed the rope tied around the Master’s feet and dragged Him out of the room. Again the chief priests and elders erupted in laughter at the sight of their Messiah in pain, and they soon followed after Him, hoping to watch His final condemnation.

Pilate, the Roman governor of Judea, Samaria, and Idumea, had come to the Sacred City from his palace at Ceasarea on the Mediterranean to keep a watchful eye on the Jews at the time of the Passover feast. How he hated Jerusalem, with its fanatic religion and constant rioting! Where were the comforts of Rome, the Colosseum, the baths, the civilization? Where were the temples to Jupiter and Mars? And yet he was here, the judge and ruler in this cursed city with all its abstinence and orthodoxy, keeping an eye on a primitive people who worshiped only one God.

Daily the Jews brought prisoners before him, and daily he sentenced them; the monotony was more than he could bare! Five months hard labor for the thief, extradition to Rome for the traitor, crucifixion for the murderer. Though he sometimes let the people’s opinions affect his sense of justice, as the high priests and elders approached the entrance to the hall of judgement early that Friday morning he couldn’t help but feel a little distrust.

They stood on the stone steps outside the entrance, afraid to enter Pilate’s temporary home for fear that there might be leavened bread there. They had no reservations when it came to beating and murdering the Great One, but heaven forbid they should become unclean by entering a Gentile’s home on the Passover!

“I suppose I should go out to them,” Pilate said to his servant in revulsion, his hatred for the Jews evident in his voice. “Give me my robe.”

The servant retrieved the robe and carefully placed it on the governor’s shoulders, tieing the mantle tightly around his neck. Pilate walked confidently to the entrance.

“Hello, Caiaphas,” Pilate said in a condescending voice. The ruler of the Jews was far less powerful than the ruler from Rome, a fact which the governor often brought to Caiaphas’ attention. Turning to Christ, Pilate asked, “What has this man done?”

Caiaphas’ nose wrinkled a bit and his eyebrows lowered, signs that he was worried; he hadn’t considered this problem. Blasphemy was a Jewish crime, not a Roman one. Hesitantly, he addressed the governor.

“We found this man perverting the nation,” he said, almost as if he were asking a question instead of stating a fact. “He . . . uh . . . also refused to give tribute to Caesar and . . . claims to be a king.”

Caiaphas’ lack of confidence made Pilate distrust him even more. Who was this Jew, the leader of a forsaken people, that dared to pester Pilate with so trivial a matter?

“Take him and judge him according to your law,” the Roman commanded, a little annoyed that they had bothered him so early in the morning. “Leave me.”

The governor turned to enter the Hall of Judgement, but, before he reached the door, the high priest once again called out to him.

“Under Roman law we can’t put anyone to death,” Caiaphas lied as Pilate, incensed, quickly turned back around to face him. The truth is that, with Pilate’s permission, Jewish law would have allowed them to stone, strangle, behead, or burn the Lord of Hosts, but they could not crucify Him. By appealing to Roman law, the chief priests and elders hoped not only to avoid an insurrection -- for surely many of the people would riot if they learned that their own rulers, and not the Roman occupiers, had killed their King -- but also to inflict upon Christ the ultimate punishment, the same which they themselves could not directly administer.

Irritated, Pilate let his shoulders lower as his eyes rolled upward. Another prisoner! Another Jew brought before him to be tried and sentenced, just like the thousands of Jews he had seen in the previous days and the thousands more he would yet see in the days to come!

“Fine,” he said curtly. “Let me interrogate Him.”

The chief priests and elders quickly untied Jesus’ feet so that He could walk with Pilate into the judgement hall, and the two men entered without another word. The room inside was spacious and cold, and the sun entering through thin windows high on the walls hit the dust in the air, producing columns of sunlight alongside the columns of stone. Unlike Annas’ place, which was bathed in yellow fire-light, the white sunlight coming through the windows of this room gave it a sort of Celestial quality.

“Tell me,” Pilate asked in a distracted voice after his captive had been seated on a comfortable couch in the center of the room, “Are you the King of the Jews?”

Pilate’s long, slender face wore the expression of a Roman governor: official and ridged. He mouth was turned slightly downward, not because he was frowning so much as because he wanted to appear condescending; he considered himself a far more powerful man than any Jewish carpenter, even one who thought to threaten him by proclaiming himself some sort of political King. He always seemed to be looking down at the Great One, even though the Savior was slightly taller than the Roman magistrate.

“Have the chief priests and elders told you that I am your king?” the prisoner questioned through weary eyes, so uncomfortable from exhaustion that He didn’t even notice the luxury of His surroundings.

Pilate forced air through his nose as he turned and looked Jesus in His eyes. Not only a Jewish prisoner, but also a dimwit! How many men like this man had he questioned in the past week? A hundred? Two hundred?

“I am not a Jew!” Pilate responded, his forehead wrinkling as it always did when he was annoyed. “You certainly are not my king! It was your own nation and the chief priests that you offended, not I. Tell me, what have you done?”

“My kingdom is not of this world,” the Messiah started, shaking His head slowly back and forth as He spoke. “If it were then my servants would fight to protect me and you would have cause to execute me, but my kingdom is not from this place at all. I have committed no crime.”

“You are a king, then?” Pilate asked with curiosity. His face softened, revealing the human side of the cold, mechanical ruler. He was beginning to realize that this man was no threat, for He considered Himself a religious king, not a political one.

“To this end was I born,” the Lord responded, “and for this cause came I into the world, that I should bear witness of the truth. Every one that is of the truth hears my voice.”

“What is truth?” Pilate asked, suddenly pondering. Then he caught himself.

“What kind of a Jew is this?” he thought. “Moments ago I was considering an execution, and now I’m suddenly pensive!” The Master was always good at putting people at ease.

He abruptly arose and, with the prisoner at his side, returned to the entrance of the hall of judgement.

“He has committed no crime under Roman law,” Pilate announced to the high priests and elders, pleased that justice required him to disappoint them.

“He has stirred up the people!” they protested. “He has taught throughout all Jewry, beginning in Galilee even to Jerusalem!”

“Galilee?” Pilate asked. “He is Galilean?”

Disgusted, Pilate turned abruptly to Caiaphas.

“Why do you waste my time, old man?” the Roman bellowed. “You know Galilee is in Herod’s jurisdiction! Why come to the great ruler from Rome when you can bring your so-called prisoner to your own king?”

He shoved the Great One in Caiaphas’ direction and immediately returned to the hall of judgement without another word. The sound of the large metal doors as they slammed shut echoed throughout the spacious room where but a few minutes before Pilate and the Prince of Peace had conversed. The Roman governor had feigned fury in front of the chief priests and elders, but, once he had left them, his angry look was replaced by a look of concern.

“What is truth?” he repeated quietly to Himself. He wasn’t sure what it was, but he knew for certain what it wasn’t. The man the high priests and elders had brought before him was not a criminal. What would become of this King he had questioned? What would happen to Jesus the Christ?

“It’s probably for the best,” Pilate kept saying, trying to justify himself. “After all, Herod will be thrilled that I have respected his authority enough to send him a prisoner for questioning.”

He sat at a table in his chambers and, placing his elbows on the cedar surface, let his head rest easily in his hands.

“Besides,” he thought, “how can I set an innocent man free when the people want Him dead? They’d riot! I’ll let Herod deal with that problem.”

No matter how many times Pilate the Roman governor repeated those words to himself, he couldn’t overcome the feeling of guilt. He had abandoned an innocent man to envious, spiteful murderers.

Herod Antipas, tetrarch of Galilee and Perea, had come to the Sacred City to keep the Passover. He was a portly, idle, sensual sloth of a man who, though called king by all the Jews, was in reality only a tool of the Roman occupation. Small bits of roasted meat flew from his mouth onto his unkept, black beard as he laughed obnoxiously on his elevated throne. His gut, which hung amply over his belt, convulsed wildly with his cackles and all could see the half-chewed meat in his mouth every time he opened it. Three women danced before him as this man, the same who had murdered John the Baptist and now claimed to be an orthodox Jew, gawked and laughed at them. Suddenly the door to his chambers flew open and a Roman guard presented the Great One, the true King, to Herod the so-called king of Galilee and Perea.

“Who is this?” Herod bellowed after he had called the dancers to come stand near him. “I have heard of you, Jesus. Perhaps you will be an even greater entertainment than my women.”

Without even looking at her, he placed his left hand, covered in grease from the food he was eating, on the upper back of one of the women next to him. She cringed as his palm slid across her shoulder blade, leaving an oily trail as it glided, until finally it rested heavily beneath her upper arm. Her entire body tensed at his touch, but, even still, she didn’t try to escape his nauseating embrace. After all, in the mind of mighty Herod, tetrarch of Galilee and Perea, she was not so much a person as a possession, and she had long since learned not to question the savage yet powerful monarch.

“Perform some miracle for us!” Herod commanded.

The Lord wore a pained look on His face, as if He were remembering the many drops of blood He had shed for Herod Antipas but a few hours earlier at Gethsemane. The king’s throne-room, though dark and musky, was adorned with some of the finest embellishments in all of Israel -- tapestries of the finest linen, marble statues of the great Jewish and Roman heros -- but the Master’s eyes were not fixed upon these. His eyes watched only the monarch before him, pleading, it seemed to me, for repentance rather than mercy. Still, He said nothing.

“Come now, Jesus,” the boar bellowed. “Surely you’re not still angry with me for slaughtering your cousin, John? Entertain us!”

Jesus’ gaze now dropped from Herod to the cold stone floor below. Herod was unmoved by the tears that fell at the Lord’s feet as He quietly wept. Still, the prisoner said nothing.

“Do you know who I am?” Herod screamed when Jesus didn’t answer. “You’re life is in my hands!”

After a few more moments of silence, Caiaphas, staring at the dancers rather than Herod, spoke up. “He claims to be a king,” he announced in a distracted voice.

“A king, is He?” Herod derided. “Perhaps if He will not entertain us willingly we can force it out of Him.”

With that que Herod’s guards approached their Messiah and grabbed both His arms.

“Remove His shirt,” Herod roared. “Let’s see if He can resist the power of a real king!”

Rather than pulling His shirt over His shoulders, the guards simply ripped it off Him. He lost His balance as they did so, but, instead of letting Him fall to the ground, the Roman soldier who stood near shoved Him cruelly back into His place. Herod seemed a little bit disappointed that Jesus hadn’t fallen. He turned quickly to the woman he was holding.

“Remove my cloak, slave,” He commanded her, staring at her flat stomach rather than her face. “Give it to this so-called King.”

Herod moved his greasy paw to her lower back as she went to work unfastening his white robe. When she tried to move away to deliver the cloak to the true King, he closed his fingers tightly around her clothing and yanked her back. Her upper body lunged forward as he unexpectedly seized her; she’d have fallen save for Herod’s firm grasp.

“Throw it too Him,” he commanded as small bits of meat flew from his mouth and landed on her arm. She tossed the cloak in the Lord’s direction as Herod pulled her back into her place, oblivious to the tears falling on her cheeks. Herod’s dirty fingernails left a small streak of mud on her back as he slowly straightened his oily fingers, keeping his hand firmly on the same spot.

“If you’re to be a king, you’ll need a regal robe,” He cackled. Jesus gazed at the pain in the woman’s eyes as the guards placed the robe on His shoulders. She stood silent and motionless, afraid that her quiet whimpers might attract Herod’s attention.

“You’ll also need servants. Come on, Machir,” Herod commanded his guard, “give Him the regal treatment.”

The guard’s spit flowed slowly down the Lord’s cheek, but He did not stop looking at the woman’s face. He had freed her spirit but a few hours before from the bondage of sin, but this terrible fox kept her body captive for his own pleasure.

“How about you, Zebulun?” Herod asked.

The second guard slapped the Christ with his right palm, leaving a red hand print on His face. Herod burst into uncontrolled laughter, and the rest quickly joined him, though only a few of them found his cruelty that funny. After about a half hour of abuse, the portly king finally bored of His captive’s silent forbearance. His bloated neck jiggled as He cleared his throat, preparing to speak to the true King before him.

“Well, Jesus,” Herod asked after each of his servants had mocked the Great One, “is kingship as great as you thought it would be?”

To the poor and downtrodden Jesus would speak words of hope and joy. To sinners He would speak words of comfort. Even to Pilate, a gentile, the Lord of Hosts would speak with words of respect. But to Herod Antipas, tetrarch of Galilee and Perea, He said nothing.

“Well no king can rule if he never commands!” Herod exclaimed. “Away with you. Tell Pilate that you are guilty of being boring and nothing more!”

As Christ departed, Herod’s left hand, still resting on the same place, suddenly pushed foreword, shoving the young woman at his side back out before him. Startled by the blow, she lost her footing and fell face first onto the floor. Herod’s palace again echoed with the sounds of hollow laughter.

Pilate’s eyebrows raised slightly when he learned with surprise that Herod had returned the prisoner unpunished. Jesus stood quietly before the Roman governor in the Hall of Judgement, His head hung low in exhaustion. Though the chief priests had untied His feet a few hours earlier, the tight ropes still around His hands had by now cut deep gashes into His skin, and Pilate could see the blood that had dried on His wrists. Sorrow had combined with the weariness in His eyes, and Pilate, when he gazed there, was startled at the depth of His pain; it was a kind of anguish he had never seen before, even among the countless others who had suffered at the hands of Jewish and Roman cruelty. The sting of guilt, which had been soothed since the Great One and the governor had last parted, was now back in full force. Without a word to the prisoner, Pilate summoned his servant.

“Call together the chief priests and leaders,” Pilate whispered meekly to the attendant. The servant’s eyes widened in surprise. Why didn’t his master order him about with his usual force? What was it about this King that made Pilate fear to offend even his slave? “I must speak to them immediately.”

Pilate sat quietly as he waited for the elders of the Jews to be brought before him. The Roman, who was a fine orator and politician, was nevertheless speechless. What could he say to the dejected Christ who sat on a comfortable chair a few feet away, staring blankly at the floor? Words of comfort, perhaps? Pilate was, in part, the cause of His pain! The governor’s comfort would reek with hypocrisy. Words of hope, that He’ll be freed within the hour? Though burdened with guilt, Pilate knew that he would sentence even an innocent man to death if the people forced his hand. Hope would be a lie.

The sunlight streaming through the window suddenly turned to darkness as a cloud passed overhead. The chief priests and elders began to enter the room one by one, many of them smiling devilishly at the sight of the Lord, who didn’t raise His eyes to meet them. Finally, they thought, they were about to destroy this pest who had led the people after some unknown God! Finally they would have their vengeance on this gadfly who had weakened their control over the multitudes!

“You have claimed that this man has perverted the people,” Pilate sneered at the Jewish leaders, pointing his right hand in Jesus’ direction. He cringed at the thought of sentencing Him to death. Desperately, he hoped to convince the chief priests and elders that the prisoner was innocent. “I’ve talked with Him and believe He is a good man, and even Herod hasn’t condemned Him of any crime. I will therefore chastise Him, and let Him go.”

The Hall of Judgement suddenly erupted as the voice of each chief priest and elder yelled in objection.

“Calm yourselves!” Pilate screamed as one of the elders, unnoticed in all the confusion, left the hall to begin his work of stirring up the people in protest. Small beads of sweat formed on Pilate’s upper lip. He knew he was losing.

“Why do you hate this man?” he asked, almost crying. “What has He done?”

Their voices sounded like a thousand drops of rain hitting a tin roof all at once. Pilate closed his uneasy eyes for a few seconds, and then opened them again. A new intensity glimmered there as he began to try to convince them, one by one, that the Lord should not be crucified.

“Hasn’t He already suffered enough?” Pilate implored, pointing out the rope-torn wounds in his wrists and the bruises on His face.

“No punishment is too great for one who dares to make himself God’s only Son!” they screamed, not realizing that they, too, were the sons of God.

“What of His mother?” he questioned. “Has she a husband to care for . . .”

“Pilate,” the governor’s servant interrupted in a hushed voice, reluctant to interfere in his master’s affairs. “You may want to step outside. I think there’s a problem.”

Pilate hadn’t noticed the sounds of the masses gathered at the entrance to the Hall of Judgement because he had been concentrating on the snarls of the chief priests and elders. His newfound fervor suddenly failed him when he realized what awaited him just outside the door. His brow wrinkled in fear -- yes, even the great governor feared -- for the Jews wanted nothing more than to see their Roman oppressor who hated and despised them shamed and ruined.

Pilate rushed frantically through the crowd of chief priests and elders, pushing aside any who stood in his way, until he reached the entrance of the Hall of Judgement. There he beheld an assembly of several thousand angry Jews, incited by one of the chief priests and ready to riot. The Roman guards shoved Jesus in Pilate’s direction, and soon He stood, exhausted, at the governor’s side.

One of multitude, an older fellow with a shriveled face and a bushy, snow-white mustache, yelled above the noise of the crowd. His voice was raspy, almost as if his throat was filled with the hot sands of the southeastern desert.

“Crucify Him!” he howled. “Crucify Him!”

There were narrow slits where his eyes should have been, and his mouth was drawn into a sharp, tight line. Pilate’s wide eyes, which had been staring in awe at the size of the assembly before him, now focused on the anger in the man’s face. He had never before seen such malice, but, much to his surprise, the same look of hatred appeared on the faces of the others as they joined in his hateful chant.

“Crucify Him!” the demons all called together. “Crucify Him!”

Pilate began to panic -- how could he convince them that the Nazarene was not worthy of death? What could he say to end hatred this powerful? Then, all at once, a stroke of brilliance.

“It is the Passover,” the governor announced, a smile growing on his face as he remembered his annual tradition of releasing a prisoner. He never thought he would welcome the Jew’s silly holiday!

“In honor of your fathers, those great men whom God delivered,” Pilate said sarcastically, the multitudes murmuring at his ridicule, “I’m going to release to you a prisoner, even Jesus of Nazareth.”

“No!” the crowd screamed back at him. “Crucify Him! Give us Barabbas!”

“Barabbas?” Pilate asked, astonished at the depth of their loathing. “Barabbas? The same who started a murderous revolt? The same who, when confronted by an innocent woman who tried to stop his madness, beat and killed her? You would have a merciless traitor instead of this man, Jesus, who is harmless?”

“Crucify Him!” they cried, even louder this time than before. “Crucify Him!”

“Why?” Pilate screamed, his voice cracking. “What has he done? I will let Him go!”

The crowd began to stir, the beginnings of an uprising. Pilate, a masterful politician, knew the signs well, and fear flashed across his face at the thought of it.

“Wait!” he boomed. The crowd fell absolutely silent. Pilate stood for a few moments, just staring at them with his mouth slightly open, a look of complete disbelief written on his face. Then, slowly, his chin tightened and his eyes grew cold.

“Slave, bring me a basin of water and a towel.”

The meekness with which he had spoken to his attendant earlier was gone. The servant left quickly and, a few moments later, returned with the items he had demanded, setting them carefully before the mighty Roman governor.

Pilate slowly lowered his hands into the warm water. In the few moments that his hands were submerged an entire war was fought out in his soul. How could he allow an innocent man to die cruelly on the cross? How could he ignore the will of the people and remain a powerful ruler? He stared at his hands as he slowly lifted them out of the basin and placed them in the towel, drying carefully. The cloth fell to the ground as Pilate raised his gaze and saw the multitude that watched him silently. Isn’t this the kind of attention he had longed for, thousands regarding their ruler with eager eyes? Somehow the honor wasn’t exactly what he had expected.

“I am innocent of the blood of this just man,” Pilate said in a whisper. Somehow the entire crowd heard him. “Do as you will.”

Then, without another word, he turned his back on the Great One and walked slowly back into the Hall of Judgement. For a few moments he could hear the shrieks of the crowd as they rushed towards Him. The guards, seeing how his eyes sagged and his mouth turned downward, quickly shut the door so that the governor would not hear the cries of the Savior as they stripped and tortured Him. Somehow he heard anyway.

One of the soldiers of the governor, Marcus by name, was among the first to approach the Master who stood, now alone, on the steps of the Hall of Judgement. With His powerful arms and muscular build Jesus could have easily defended Himself against the brute, even if He hadn’t been the very God of heaven and earth, but, instead, He remained still as the savage approached. Marcus raised his hand and seized His long, brown hair, hoping to drag Him to the common hall, not far from that spot, where the soldiers ate and slept. Much to his delight, he accidentally yanked too hard and pulled several locks from the Lord’s head. Throwing the hair to the ground, the monster then grabbed the ropes around His arms and twisted them, laughing in delight at the grimace that fell upon His face as the cords tightened around His raw flesh. The Jews who had demanded His crucifixion followed him eagerly as he dragged the Deliverer back to the barracks, a wolf hauling an innocent lamb back to its lair.

A dirt floor covered the soldier’s barracks and the walls were made of cloth rather than stone. Dust hung everywhere in the air, a thick, suffocating blanket. Marcus threw the Lord mercilessly to the floor where the soil there mingled with the blood oozing from His wrists. Immediately the soldiers fell upon Him, ripping Herod’s white cloak from His body and leaving Him completely naked. He cried out in pain as they then seized His right ear and yanked Him to His feet. One of the soldiers retrieved a scarlet robe from his wardrobe and placed it irreverently over His shoulders.

“A King!” he called, laughing at the sight of the exposed Christ in a regal robe. “But something’s missing . . . what do you think, Ramus?”

“No crown?” Ramus, another soldier, asked, pretending to be surprised. The cockroach quickly scurried out the door and returned with the branches, covered in inch-long thorns, of a nearby shrub. His harsh, gray hands wove the sticks into a crown for the King.

“Nice work, Ramus,” Marcus remarked, examining the crown as if it were a piece of fine art. He placed the creation in the center of a wooden board, which served as a sort of stand, and held it a distance away from his face, admiring it. The crowds were enjoying the soldiers’ performance.

“What do you think of it, Master?” He asked, turning quickly to the Lord. The prisoner stared speechless at the morbid laurel before Him.

“Come now, Jesus,” Marcus mocked. “Surely a King could appreciate such fine craftsmanship!”

Marcus began to turn slowly from the Master, as if he were going to walk away. Suddenly his muscles, firing like pistons, shot him into the air. He flipped the board as he flew so that the crown was beneath, and pressed it with all his strength onto the top of Christ’s head as he landed. The multitude gasped in horror, but then burst out in cheers.

Streams of crimson blood from the thorns deep in His forehead mingled with the tears of sorrow -- not of pain -- flowing from His blue eyes.

“There’s something else,” Ramus noted as he touched the crown imbedded in the Lord’s head and wiggled it quickly back and forth. “He’s not quite yet a king,” he laughed.

“A royal scepter!” Marcus yelled in delight. “That’s what’s missing!” He scampered out the door and returned a few moments later with the branch of a nearby olive tree.

“Here you are, Master,” he said, placing the stick underneath the prisoner’s biceps. “A fine garnish for a fine King.”

All the soldiers then bowed before Him in feigned veneration..

“Hail, King of the Jews!” they cried, laughing devilishly at each other.

Ramus quickly arose and approached Him, moving his mouth a few inches away from the Master’s face so that He could smell the rancid stench of the soldier’s breath.

“How can I serve you, Master?” Ramus asked with pretended sincerity.

“I know!” he continued, glancing down at His scepter. “A King should not be burdened. Let me carry that for you.”

Ramus yanked it from underneath His arm, and the knobs of the stick tore great gashes in His side. With all his strength, he then slowly swung the heavy branch so that it was pointing away from the Master. His biceps stiffened as the stick then swung back, this time with greater force, until the pole hit the back of the Savior’s head and pushed the thorns there even deeper into His scalp. The force of the blow knocked Him to the ground.

“How can I serve you, Master?” Marcus then asked, bending over so that his face was near the Lord’s face. He stared into his eyes, smiling at the pain there.

“Your face looks soiled,” he continued in a concerned voice, noticing the blood on His brow. “I’ll help you clean it!”

His spit landed directly above the Great One’s right eye and fell slowly onto His eyelid. The soldiers cackled in delight as they then tied the Master’s hands to a nearby post and removed His royal cloak. With a smile on his face, Marcus walked a few yards and retrieved the large, leather lash from beneath his bed. The multitudes fell silent with anticipation.

He moved quickly now; the beast had scourged prisoners countless times and even took pride in his expertise. He held the handle of the whip is his right hand and let the leather straps rest in his left. The long bands had sharp pieces of lead and bone at their tips, little knives that could cut into the flesh of the victim. He strutted towards the Savior with confidence and a smile upon his face, excited at the opportunity to humble so proud a King. The prisoner didn’t move.

Marcus, now near the Master, let the strands of the whip drop from his left hand. He slowly raised his right as the well-toned muscles of his forearm tensed in preparation. He paused a moment, the lash high above his head, and then snapped his arm forward, propelling the tips of the leather straps towards their target. Jesus shook convulsively when the lead and bone cut deep into His back, leaving streaks of red.

Again Marcus positioned his whip, and again he struck, this time with an even greater force. More crimson streaks appeared on the Master’s back, this time wider than before, and the Great One, still tied to the post, let His knees fall to the floor. Marcus smiled cruelly as He collapsed.

The soldier positioned his whip fifteen times, and fifteen times added streaks of red to the back of Him who had born the sins of the world. Each crack of the whip reached the ears of Pontius Pilate, who sat comfortably on his judgement seat, and with each crack a solitary tear rolled slow