The dawn breaks cold this springtime morning.
Some thoughts flash through of the night before. The meal, with the bread and wine. The re-telling of an old story. The waiting, sleepy, in the scented garden. The tyrants' pounce.
And now the sheep have been scattered - down here, over in town at Mark's mother's house - what was Mark doing out in the garden, running around in just a slip of cloth? And the Shepherd is taken away.
We could run today - count it all lost. Get out to the sticks, where nobody will care if we followed a failed Messiah.
Or we can trust. Maybe getting smuggled into the heart of power is the plan. Maybe he starts by taking out the Council and the Governor. By this evening, he could have set us all free.
We'll hang on today. By tonight it should all be over.