Yeshua Wept

To Yeshua ben Yosef, King David’s words had once been only a poetic image of danger. His father had once told him that perhaps life itself was the Valley and that the Shadow of Death hung over all men whether they realized it or not. Figurative. Distant. Not a real place.

Now the twelve-year-old crouched in that Valley, and grappled with the realization that it was very real indeed.

Not only the Shadow of Death but Death itself hung over the place. Even the darkness couldn’t hide the magnitude of the destruction, for bonfires dotted the landscape, lighting everything with an eerie glow. Roman soldiers gathered round the flames like fiends around unholy shrines. And in the flickering light, Yeshua could see the silhouettes of the slain and dying, upright upon their tortuous poles.

Impossible that so much death could be accomplished so quickly.

Just yesterday these men had lived. This valley had been only another green valley in the hills of the Galil. He’d seen crucified men often enough, of course, but never hundreds upon hundreds, perhaps even thousands . . .

Yeshua wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand. Crying would do no good now. He must be careful and quick if he were to return home safely. Yet he could not help wishing this time had not come to him. He had not fully understood until now the cruelty of which mankind was capable. He wished he could obliterate this new understanding, but was old enough to know that that was impossible. He would never forget. Never.

Had it been just two months since the triumphant sounding of the ram’s horn? So much had happened since then...

"Boy!"

He started at the sudden croaking of a voice in the darkness.

"Run, boy, run!"