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Rabbit Trails 9.12.19 – a poem, the care of souls, & sabbath rest.

Rabbit Trails 9.12.19 – a poem, the care of souls, & sabbath rest.

§ George Herbert – Aaron 

I work through a few Herbert poems each month, and am increasingly convinced the man was a literary genius. The structure, turns, and endings are layered in such powerful ways. Here is one that I have really enjoyed lately:


Holiness on the head,
Light and perfections on the breast,
Harmonious bells below, raising the dead
To lead them unto life and rest:
Thus are true Aarons drest.
Profaneness in my head,
Defects and darkness in my breast,
A noise of passions ringing me for dead
Unto a place where is no rest:
Poor priest, thus am I drest.
Only another head
I have, another heart and breast,
Another music, making live, not dead,
Without whom I could have no rest:
In him I am well drest.
Christ is my only head,
My alone-only heart and breast,
My only music, striking me ev’n dead,
That to the old man I may rest,
And be in him new-drest.
So, holy in my head,
Perfect and light in my dear breast,
My doctrine tun’d by Christ (who is not dead,
But lives in me while I do rest),
Come people; Aaron’s drest.

Re-read it. Look at the structure of each stanza and how it repeats in the same topical pattern. Then, if you’re interested, here is an analysis.

Herbert is my favorite poet. I love this collection, and have been really enjoying Ryken’s commentary in this anthology of Christian devotional poetry.

§ Harold Senkbeil – Care of Souls

The first book we are reading in the Ministry Leadership track of the TVCI Residency this year is from Lexham Press, and is entitled The Care of Souls: Cultivating a Pastor’s Heart by Harold Senkbeil. Senkbeil is a lutheran pastor who, after 53 years in ministry, has written a beautiful work on the classical model of pastoring. I keep finding myself caught between stories of his childhood on a farm and pictures of him ministering in the most humane ways that shine with God’s mercy. It is an encouragement and call toward the normal work of pastoral ministry, and I keep getting the kind of gentle, patient, but firm sense of truth that I sense from men like Eugene Peterson and Zack Eswine. There is a settledness about Harold’s words that is comforting and calls toward something beautiful in the work for the pure sake of the work for the Savior, and not for success in secular terms.

Here are a few quotes:

“What you might consider mundane routine is the very heart of your calling: to preach the unsearchable riches of Christ and to administer his life-giving sacraments. Preaching, baptizing, communing may be ordinary and God-ordained—but they are never dull. Through these sacred acts, God gives his Holy Spirit, who works faith when and where it pleases him in those who hear the gospel. Week after week, day after day these seemingly ordinary tasks of a pastor are extraordinarily rich in their impact: sinners are forgiven, saints restored, lives enriched and hearts consoled—all by your mouth and hands! The Spirit’s work continues through you daily and richly in his holy church. This may be routine, but it’s never boring.” p.29

“People have been scrambling to find some way of carrying out what seems to be an impossible task: making disciples in a world that seems with every passing year less and less inclined to become disciples. All kinds of methods have been borrowed from business, advertising, and the social sciences in service of Christ’s commission. Yet the most important ingredient in that mission is often overlooked: the promised personal presence of Jesus by means of his word and sacrament.” p.15

“It amazes me that the medical profession depends on something that we pastors in recent generations have tended to dismiss: quiet, probing conversation accompanied by a great deal of attentive listening. In my experience, the listening itself provides an immensely therapeutic benefit. Most people in our time are frenetically occupied with so many things that they don’t take the time to sit down and unburden their hearts. And if ever they are inclined to do so, there’s no one to listen. So simply giving someone your undivided attention for sixty or so clock ticks, you’ve given then an immense gift.” p.68

§ Sabbath – Recent Sermon and Resources

Last weekend I preached on Sabbath from Psalm 95. As we are learning to practice this rhythm in our house with small children, I have included the sermon and several resources below for use.

“If you don’t come apart for a while, you will come apart after a while.” – Dallas Willard

§ tidbits: 

Lately I’ve been enjoying a song by The New Scottish Hymns Band, Give Me Some Truth. Here it is below:

Here’s to hoping the Texas weather cools off soon, it’s the time of year where I want to end the day around the fire pit with friends. Thanks for reading.

Holy Baptism – George Herbert

Holy Baptism – George Herbert

One of my favorite books is The Complete English Works of George Herbert. It’s a bit of a poetic anchor for me. Here’s one I enjoyed this week.

Holy Baptism (I)

As he that sees a dark and shady grove,
Stays not, but looks beyond it on the sky
So when I view my sins, mine eyes remove

More backward still, and to that water fly,
Which is above the heav’ns, whose spring and rent
Is in my dear Redeemer’s pierced side.

O blessed streams! either ye do prevent
And stop our sins from growing thick and wide,
Or else give tears to drown them, as they grow.

In you Redemption measures all my time,
And spreads the plaster equal to the crime:
You taught the book of life my name, that so,
Whatever future sins should me miscall,
Your first acquaintance might discredit all.

Shame on us.

Shame on us.

Shame gets on us from the inside. Wielded like a sword by sin, it separates us from our own selves, from others, and from God.

As you head into another year, may this be a space for you to sit still enough to begin to hear where shame drives you apart – from yourself, from others, and from God.

These two songs have been ringing around in my head about the battle of this voice, and the struggle to hear true words in the middle of wishing I’d done, I’d been better.

Beloved in Christ, shame’s story isn’t the end for you.
May we hear the voice of the Father louder each day.




We are our memories. What story are they saying about you?

We are our memories. What story are they saying about you?

For the last five years, my wife and I became parents and began raising three children in my hometown. A simple drive to the grocery store was a (sometimes forced) opportunity to reopen a memory. Five years of opening drawers gave me new eyes for the past, with a little more compassion for myself and others. It was always the stoplights that got me thinking – history and the moment pulling to the line, idling and parting ways.

A few months ago, we left home. Now I am remembering different things.

Like the daily drive to the nursing home in grade school. Rooms filled with the fullness and lack of a lifetime, echoes of homes built with other hopes. The short, but routine visits – a firm smile, a fragile hug. The feel of waxen skin.

And the smell of hospice at All Saints mixed with the buttery popcorn in the lobby. The crowded family waiting room, another room pretending to be anywhere but there. The feel of holding warm bread in my lap on the drive to hospice, my mom delivering homemade food to bring a sense of normalcy in a world of confusion.

Or the back half of high school – those last two years where we packed and unpacked the ever-diminishing suitcases of my grandfather’s belongings into the half-dozen medicare homes before his death to pancreatic cancer. The call from that same hospice floor while my dad and I were out running errands. “Get here, quickly.”

Sitting with my 7th grade Sunday school teacher shortly before cancer took him. Corned beef and rye over lunch, and how his body leaned heavily upon the cane with each step back to the car.

The feeling of these rooms, the memories of presence and loss.

I’ve been sitting with these thoughts trying to figure out why I think it’s important to remember – to do the work of trying to actually interpret what we observe in life. My interpretation at 12 has impacted who I am at 35, and my lenses for life will progressively change with each decade.

God knows I am a bad interpreter of my own experience, and how fast I move to avoid remembering things that were confusing, brought pain, or I didn’t know what to do with. But who I am is undeniably affected by what I have experienced and how I interpret it. We are, to a great extent, our memories. They shape the story we believe about who we are and where we are going at the next stoplight.

Perhaps it’s time to revisit our observations, inviting Jesus into those moments of loss, of grief, of geography, community, and need.

I don’t want another moment of loss to be marked by a desire to escape discomfort – but to live aware of God’s presence in that moment, aware of his work beyond my interpretation.

Reality is too heavy to close the drawer on. It will sit until geography forces it open, one way or another.

Eugene Peterson, whose work has shaped me greatly, went into Joy yesterday. Last week I reread a poem by Hopkins that Peterson often quoted, which for the twelfth reading and the first time hit home:

As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame;
As tumbled over rim in roundy wells
Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell’s
Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:
Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;
Selves — goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,
Crying What I do is me: for that I came.

I say more: the just man justices;
Keeps grace: that keeps all his goings graces;
Acts in God’s eye what in God’s eye he is —
Christ — for Christ plays in ten thousand places,
Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his
To the Father through the features of men’s faces.


Remember. Be present.

Recognize God is already present.

Look for how Christ plays in the memories and moments of your life.

Let them form you, and do what you came for.

Abide in My Love.

Abide in My Love.

Last Sunday I preached my final sermon as one of the pastors at The Village Church Fort Worth. This Friday I begin a new role as the Director of the Training Program within The Village Church Institute.

We spent the time looking at John 15, and the love of God for those in Christ Jesus. I’ve spent the last 15+ months in this passage, praying and pleading in a season of pruning and pressing to abide. I was thankful to end five years with these people in this passage, looking at the love of Jesus.

I’ve been using the same language for us as a people, hopeful it would sink into our thoughts as a congregation:

God is who he says that he is, and what he says about you is true.

I caught myself in this season needing to nuance it for my own heart:

God is who he says that he is, and what he says about you – what he says about how he feels about you – is true.

Help us believe this, Lord.

Here’s the audio.

Good Friday: The Tomb Filled

Good Friday: The Tomb Filled

Note: We walked through this tonight in our Good Friday service. As with my preparation for Palm Sunday, Kostenberger and Taylor’s work, The Final Days of Jesus, has been a rich aid in studying the text and preparing messages for this week. I recommend you get a copy of their works for both lent and advent.

I pray the visual below helps you enter into Christ’s grief as you look upon the cross this Good Friday.

This morning, as you were driving to work, possibly settling in at your desk,  getting your youngest up from their nap, or headed to class – Pilate was having a tense conversation with the Holy Men, the Priests, and Pharisees – and Pilate seems to be losing.

Try as he might, Pilate can’t agree with them about the threat level of this man Jesus. He keeps trying to turn Jesus loose, and the Holy Men finally threaten to write a heated email and cc Pilate’s boss (Caesar), along with a few tersely worded tweets about how Pilate can’t do his job unless he does what they want.

And Pilate is nervous. His wife is telling him she’s had a dream about Jesus, and he should back away quickly. Jesus is puzzling him, because he’s not acting like any terrorist or criminal Pilate’s ever seen. There is something not right. The only thing he can sense for sure is the envy of the Priests that Jesus is threatening their popularity and power.

The threat against his loyalty to Caesar is enough for Pilate. Surprisingly it comes from the High Priests of God, who should be looking for the Kingdom of God  – but who deny God’s King, pledging their loyalty to King Caesar as they condemn King Jesus.

This week has left the holy men, the priests, scribes and Pharisees, thirsty for revenge, and ready to let Jesus taste their power – real power – as they know how to work a crowd, move the mob, and push Rome’s buttons.

These priests, these keepers of the house of God, get what it is to make things happen. They’ve pressed and pushed throughout the night without sleep – but it’s been worth it for this moment – because now no one is singing Hosanna for the prophet, there is no praise for Jesus. There are no palm branches or royal carpets today.

The faithful have left town, and the remnant that was here before has remained after. What change did Jesus even think he could make in five days? Look at him next to Pilate, unable to shield his eyes from the morning sun, his hands bound behind his back. He looks so weak now. No pithy questions, no high judgments from his mouth anymore. In fact, he’s said next to nothing all night. Like a little lamb, he’s been silent.

And now this lamb is the scourge of Rome. Time to hand him off and watch the work of the holy men play out.

Jesus has been surrounded by crowds this week.

On the hills outside town, a kingly welcome by a longing people.

In the temple, a mixed room of open ears and blind eyes, hope and hatred in every degree.

In the moonlit shadows of the garden, pawns and puppet masters come to arrest him.

All morning an angry mob of Jews, screaming for his death at the freedom of a known terrorist.

And this morning, Pilate has sent him to a battalion of Roman soldiers to be prepared for crucifixion. Here is Jesus: tied to a post – hands outstretched in front of him, a shirtless man surrounded by 600 yelling, mocking, snide, belittling roman soldiers.

And one fierce whip: The Scourge. Nine strands of leather knotted with glass and metal. It often took the lives of many sentenced to crucifixion before they ever made it out of the yard.

Imagine the angle, looking down from above. The white sand, a red speck surrounded by a thick pulsing, moving shiny outer ring. One man, standing in his blood, alone in the center of 600 angry voices, pacing, threatening, harming with each minute.

Hear their cries.

Now mute their voices. 

Hear the crack of the whip.

The Gospels give little to no details of the agony of the cross. Most times you hear specifics referenced, people are trying to give color and context to the pain and punishment Christ experienced, and for some reason – the bible doesn’t lay it out for you. It’s not for shock or sensation – but for sight that we think on Christ’s suffering. Blindness, evil blindness is ruling this day, and we need to know sight is possible.

Some of those 600 probably sat down for lunch while Jesus’s hands and feet were nailed in place. They had their fun. Can you see them eating now,  joking about the robe and the crown?

While some of you worked through lunch, and others of you made PB&J’s for the third day in a row, Jesus was crucified.

And his mom watched it happen. Can you feel her tears? Her boy, losing blood by the second, nailed to a log and being yelled at by a crowd. Her boy, whom she bled to bring into the world, now bleeds as he leaves it, and she can’t make it stop.  

The Pharisees watched it too – and they didn’t want it to stop. Look what they made happen. They took in the full view, they heard the crowd damning his name, and it was sweet music to them – they were back in power.

You can feel their satisfaction. No more “woe to you, hypocrites”. No more threats.

Imagine the smugness in their eyes, the sick joy in their voice as they get close enough to his feet, but far enough to keep clean from his blood. Looking at Jesus, they are drunk with power. One priest stands before the others, in front of the people, and loudly says:

“He saved others; he cannot save himself. He is the King of Israel; let him come down now from the cross, and we will believe in him. He trusts in God; let God deliver him now, if he desires him. For he said, ‘I am the Son of God.” (Matthew 27:42-43)

Little do they know how much The Father desires the Son. These Holy Men have no sight for the players they are in a cosmic war. They see themselves generals, and they are lego men – but their words, their hate, their worldly authority are daggers at Jesus, because you cannot separate his humanity and his deity – for he is himself. He, human and divine, is nailed to the wood, and he, human and divine, has to endure these insults, this pain, and the next few hours until his death.

And while you were cleaning up from lunch, washing dishes, or heading back to the office, the sun went dark. Now the moon was full last night, so it’s no solar eclipse. It is the brightest and hottest part of the day. It’s an early Spring afternoon, and it’s black as night outside.

If you’re able to think above the sadness, or see past your hate – the darkness in midday might make you pause for a second.

Zoom out from this scene, and onto the wide scale of what’s happening – authors say this kind of darkness has typically meant three things among God’s people in the Old Testament:

  • It is a sign that humans are ignorant of their sin.
  • It is a sign of Divine Lament.
  • And it is a sign of Divine Judgement.  

Jesus is on the cross, and the sky has turned black.

Just this week he told the parable, and now they play it out: The owner of the vineyard sent his son, and they killed him and threw him out – wanting the inheritance for themselves.

The darkness could be all three: sin, lament, and judgment.

The Pharisees yell: He trusts in God; let God deliver him now, if he desires him.

And they echo Psalm 22:
7 All who see me mock me;
they make mouths at me; they wag their heads;
8 “He trusts in the Lord; let him deliver him;
let him rescue him, for he delights in him!”

Christ knew his life was required. Hebrews 12 tells us that it was the joy set before him that helped him endure.

And in the middle his pain, in the middle of his body failing: his shoulders long out of socket, his legs cramping, his lungs filling with fluid and every breath a struggle, God begins to pour out his wrath on sin.

Unseen by our eyes, Angels watch on in confusion, and Demon smiles drop as God moves, not to rescue the Son, but to punish him, the sinless, for all sin.

Divine judgment on rebellion, lust, addiction, stolen glances, misplaced hopes, anger, proud moments and stubborn hearts. His hatred of arrogance, lying, cheating, abuse, murder, of twistedness and darkness and evil.

His right punishment of all things that have come and gone, and that will come and go against his perfect standard, design, and creation – God’s divine judgment is poured out on the only sacrifice that is able to absorb, pay for, and shield others from all that is deserved by sin and should be felt by sinners.

Absorb. Pay for. Shield.

These actions are coated in Christ’s grief – they are colored with his blood. Living in perfect unity and presence with his father – he feels – for the first and only time in his life, a relationship destroyed by the weight of sin.

But he feels it on the scale of every broken relationship rolled into one, an unimaginable absence of love and affection and presence and stability and safety while he is bleeding out on a cross, yelled at by men who mock his name and his father – while his mother and his friends look on.

It is the most unbearable part of the day, and Christ is alone in it.

He alone experiences this grief – and he doesn’t give in to death in the middle of it.

After a few hours, the crowd had grown quiet watching these three men, many probably left knowing that death was imminent. It’s about when you started thinking of what was for dinner or leaving early to beat Friday traffic. By mid-afternoon, it had likely grown quiet on the hill outside town.

One poet uses the mocker’s words, and imagines Jesus thinking to himself: But, O my God, my God! why leav’st thou me, The son, in whom thou dost delight to be?

And the dark silence is broken as Jesus cries out loud: My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Mt 27:46)

A little while later, through bruised ribs and spent strength, he pulls himself up for a breath, and with exhaustion and tears, says, “It is finished.”

That same poet, some 1800 years later would write this moment from Christ’s voice:

But now I die; now all is finished.
My woe, man’s wealth: and now I bow my head.
Only let others say, when I am dead,
                                             Never was grief like mine.

This is our King. Dead upon the cross.






Note: On Palm Sunday, I preached from Christ’s triumphal entry to his arrest in the garden this Thursday night (audio here). Having spent time studying the Gospel accounts and reading The Final Days of Jesus by Kostenberger and Taylor, I tried to lay out the narrative for our congregation’s eyes – hoping we could see more of Jesus together in the text. Below is the portion of my manuscript for Thursday, where we find Jesus and his disciples celebrating the Passover feast, and we end the night watching from the shadows of olive trees as Jesus is betrayed and arrested like a common thief. May it serve you as you look to enter into Christ’s grief this week, and as we approach tomorrow, Good Friday -the tomb filled- then Easter Sunday, when it was found empty.

It’s Thursday: Passover. This is the day, and by Old Testament law, the meal has to be eaten inside the city walls. Everyone is making plans, homes are full of relatives and the lines at the checkout are full of last minute shoppers.

Jesus knows that it’s going to be a long night, and his heart is heavy with what is ahead. You can’t separate his deity and humanity, it’s wrong to think he enters into this evening without emotion, fear, or the call for courage in the face of grief and pain.

Jesus is not a victim of circumstance or of power outside his control. He has been, is and will be in control at each turn of this week – regardless of what worldly power and demonic minds think is at play.

But tonight is his last meal to eat before he dies.

Tonight is his final chance to sit with his friends before their last three years are changed forever. It is their last supper together.

And tonight is a different kind of Passover, it is the last Passover of Old Covenant.

The blood of the lamb of God brings in a different and stronger word – the New Covenant is coming.

Given that this past week has made him a bit of a celebrity – where Jesus spends Passover is a big deal. It seems like he arranged dinner ahead time, and maybe with some secrecy.

I say this because when the disciples asked about dinner plans – he sent them find a man who was looking for them. It was already taken care of. Dinner that night was in a house at end the street, in a large upstairs room with high windows. There were a couple of columns spread wide across the room, a low table in the middle and cushions set out in a U shape to lean on while they ate. Jesus is sitting in the middle of the center table, and everyone is laying on their side, leaning on their left arms, feet out from the table, eating and drinking with their right hand.

The gospels all give nuanced accounts of dinner that night. It’s not that they saw or heard different things – they’re writing a narrative and include what hits their target audience best. That’s part of why I made that hybrid out of Mark.

John includes the most robust description of the night, detailed chapters about dinner and what Christ taught over the meal – but he doesn’t address what we call The Last Supper, what we know as communion. The synoptics, Matthew, Mark and Luke cover this in a pretty tight fashion. Like earlier, I mashed together their versions to help us today.

As we read this text, know that we’re standing together against the inside wall of the upper room. You can see the sun fading outside the windows, as stars will soon begin to show. The candles and lamps are lit inside, and the table is set for a  feast. Where it has been a triumphant week for many, the air in the room has turned sober. Jesus is talking about being betrayed, about suffering, about his body breaking, his blood spilling, about leaving – and a Helper coming.

We pick up in Mark 14:

[Mark 14:17] And when it was evening, he came with the twelve. [18] And as they were reclining at table and eating, Jesus said, “Truly, I say to you, one of you will betray me, one who is eating with me.” [19] They began to be sorrowful and to say to him one after another, “Is it I?” [20] He said to them, “It is one of the twelve, one who is dipping bread into the dish with me. [21] For the Son of Man goes as it is written of him, but woe to that man by whom the Son of Man is betrayed! It would have been better for that man if he had not been born.”   

[Matthew 26: 25] Judas, who would betray him, answered, “Is it I, Rabbi?” He said to him, “You have said so.”

[Luke 22: 15] And he said to them, “I have earnestly desired to eat this Passover with you before I suffer. [16] For I tell you I will not eat it until it is fulfilled in the kingdom of God.” [17] And he took a cup, and when he had given thanks he said, “Take this, and divide it among yourselves. [18] For I tell you that from now on I will not drink of the fruit of the vine until the kingdom of God comes.” [19] And he took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and gave it to them, saying, “This is my body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.” [20] And likewise the cup after they had eaten, saying, “This cup that is poured out for you is the new covenant in my blood.”

As there had been at many points that week, I’m sure a couple glances were shared between the disciples. They didn’t quite get what he was saying, but Jesus knew. Like I said, purposeful little anchors in memory. John says that Jesus does this so that when the disciples are sifted, they can remember he told them ahead of time. Jesus does this that their faith might be strengthened in their persecution. Jesus loved them, and looked out for them to the end.

We can tell from where we’re standing that the plates are empty – the meal is done, and there is one less of them at the table. Judas left early, some think to buy forgotten food or run an errand, we saw Jesus tell him something and then he was gone.

Throughout the meal we’ve heard them sing several times, but now, before the table is cleared and things are done – tradition calls for the final song: Psalm 118.

As we stand in the shadows of the room, the sun is long gone, the moonlight hits the rooftops around us, and the faces inside are lit only by flickers of lamplight. Their voices begin to echo off the stone walls.

And as we watch this circle of friends, of disciples and their Lord singing, we hear these words come from their mouths. One wonders Christ’s own thoughts as he sang, both text and subtext, together in his voice:

Psalm 118

[1] Oh give thanks to the LORD, for he is good;
for his steadfast love endures forever!

[5] Out of my distress I called on the LORD;
the LORD answered me and set me free.
[6] The LORD is on my side; I will not fear.
What can man do to me?
[7] The LORD is on my side as my helper;
I shall look in triumph on those who hate me.

[14] The LORD is my strength and my song;
he has become my salvation.

[17] I shall not die, but I shall live,
and recount the deeds of the LORD.
[18] The LORD has disciplined me severely,
but he has not given me over to death.

[19] Open to me the gates of righteousness,
that I may enter through them
and give thanks to the LORD.
[20] This is the gate of the LORD;
the righteous shall enter through it.
[21] I thank you that you have answered me
and have become my salvation.

[22] The stone that the builders rejected
has become the cornerstone.

[23] This is the LORD’s doing;
it is marvelous in our eyes.

[24] This is the day that the LORD has made;
let us rejoice and be glad in it.

[28] You are my God, and I will give thanks to you;
you are my God; I will extol you.
[29] Oh give thanks to the LORD, for he is good;
for his steadfast love endures forever!

After they sing, they leave through a door in the far corner off to our right, and head down the stairs, into the street. The Bible tells us they are headed to the garden of Gethsemane, where Jesus prays and wrestles his will to the ground with his own blood. He prays for his disciples, his friends. He prays for those who would come to believe in him – for you and me.

On the last night of his life, Jesus prays that God would let us see his Glory, be one with him, and that God would keep us from evil. Jesus asks his Father that we might be a sign to the world, in unity and love, that He, Jesus, our King, is the true son, sent by the Father.

As we stand now in the darkness of the garden, we’re again hidden in the shadows, this time by thick olive trees, squatty trunks as round as tires and heavy with branches.

Jesus is walking toward us. Exhausted from prayer, he comes back to find his three friends, Peter, James, and John sleeping just off to our left. Their spirit is willing, but their flesh is weak.

If there is any time to be awake – you would think it is now. These three have already been woken up twice by Jesus – but it’s late, the meal was long, the wine is heavy, and their bodies are tired. Jesus rouses them once more, saying something about it being time.

Wait, what are they looking at? Do you hear it? The footsteps? Do you see the torchlight? There is a mob coming quickly in the darkness.

There’s an awkward greeting, the hug of a friend, a kiss of betrayal, and a night of injustice ahead.

His is a heart full of grief, like no one has ever known.

Righteous, victorious and humble.

This is our King, and this is his hour.