All is quiet on Golgotha.
The crowds have dispersed, and your friends—once scattered—now approach your lifeless body, their faces drawn and drained, reflecting still the horror of the moment.
Someone offers your mother an embrace and a tender word.
Two or three others unwrap the cloth, placing your remains atop the linen and then gently begin wrapping feet…legs…arms…torso…in its folds.
The soldiers laugh and chatter as they pack away their tools: Just another day on the job, now mercifully come to a close.
Summoning their last remnant of strength, the followers lift your enshrouded body onto their shoulders…and carry it away, down the rocky path toward the bottom of the hill.
I fall in behind, trudging along at a distance. A part of me struggles to comprehend what I’ve just witnessed. It makes no sense, unless its meaning is this: Hatred, spite and greed have indeed claimed the final victory.
Love is now entombed.
So I gather for a while, with the others, outside the tomb.
And we wait.
And we wonder.
With Us Still 
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