As the winds rose and the black sky threatened to unleash its wrath the crowd on the hillside began to melt away, small groups and pairs and an occasional individual hurried toward the dark, brooding buildings of the city. Even the morbid attraction of a crucifixion could not hold the fickle mob against the portent of the fury of a spring storm.

At the last there were few to witness the deaths of the crucified or their laborious descent from the crosses. The four soldiers who had made up the crucifixion detail, a few others who served as guards, and the centurion were the only ones in the immediate area, save for the tiny group that huddled sadly at the foot of the central cross. Three women and a man had moved in timidly but determinedly toward the end. Now they stood with blank expressions, their faces tear-stained, drawn, as though they could not believe what they saw, or believing, could not accept it as final.

The man, broad of shoulder, sturdy, his arm around one of the women, made as if to lead her from the gruesome sight, but she shook her head and they remained there silent, helpless, like a symbol of all that is hopeless.

Again the sky struck at the earth in flashing anger, but they seemed neither to see nor to hear its roar. Slowly the man’s eyes moved up the cross from the place where its upright beam pierced the earth. The stains left by little rivulets of blood were turning dark against its rough grain and he knitted his brow as though he did not understand how this could be. His gaze fastened on the feet, one atop the other, impaled to form the spring from which the rivulets had flowed. He raised his eyes further, to the naked, limp figure, striped with the evidence of pains no longer felt, then up to the head which hung over sideways, grotesque in death.

But the man’s mind did not perceive what his eyes saw. As he stared, the eyes of the one whom he had called friend, teacher, rabbi, lord, seemed to look sadly down upon them, and the lips moved. "Woman," the crucified said, "behold your son!"

The man could feel the woman’s quiet sobbing as he drew his protective arm closer about her. Then attention was focused on him. "Son," the crucified said, "behold your mother!"

Now those same compassionate eyes were glazed, unfocused, lifeless, and the disciple, John, son of thunder, felt the numbness of futility grip his soul as he looked away. Were it not for these women, these women who now depended upon him, he would have let himself fall into black despair. From somewhere, deep inside his own emptiness, he must find courage and strength to help them to ease their suffering.

He turned to the women, their heads hooded, clothed in dark garments that made them so much a part of the sorrow of the dark day where all nature appeared to grieve. There was Mary, wife of Joseph, mother of the crucified, who, alone of all his family, had tried to understand, to have faith, to believe, who stood now at the foot of the cross sensing and sharing her son’s every pain. Beside her was Mary of Magdala, she whom he had healed of sickness unto death, whose mind he had released from the grip of forces as cruel as any that can grasp and twist the human personality, and had made of her a whole person. Next was the other Mary, wife of Clopas, sister of the crucified’s mother. Three women, and they alone of all who had followed him to Jerusalem, stood with the disciple John at the foot of the cross.

How ironical it was.

When just those few short days ago there had been so many ...

John the disciple looked beyond the women to the city, dull and lifeless under the roiling black skies. It was as if the city itself had hidden its face, ashamed, and drawn into itself that it might not be seen in its infamous defilement. How different from that day - when was it? A month ago? A year ago? No - was it possible - at just the beginning of this week.

His Lord and the other disciples - where were they now? had come down to Jerusalem from Bethany. Word had raced ahead of them. All Jerusalem seemed to have heard of the things that had happened in Bethany, how Lazarus, dead and buried four long days, had been released from the tomb. And the crowds waited in excitement for the Lord’s coming.

John remembered how, as they neared Jerusalem, as they stood on the Mount of Olives, Jesus had sent two of the disciples into a small village, saying, "There you will find a colt tied, whereon no man ever yet sat; loose him and bring him. And if any one say to you, Why do you do this? Say to him, the Lord has need of him."

When they brought the colt, they put their garments on it, and Jesus sat on the colt and rode across the valley and up the way to the city; and as he approached, the crowds ran out to meet him. Some climbed the date palms and cut thick fresh leaves so they spilled to the ground, and the crowds grabbed them up and ran ahead of him, throwing the palm branches in his path as they cried, "Hosanna in the highest! Blessed is he that cometh in the name of the Lord!"

Others, who did not know of him, said, "Who is this?"

And those with the happy, excited faces cried, "This is the prophet, Jesus, from Nazareth in Galilee."

But not everyone, John recalled bitterly, joined in the praise. Some of the Pharisees blocked his way, and held the colt. "Teacher," they demanded, "rebuke your disciples!"

The teacher’s face had a strange, mystic quality as he replied, "I tell you that, if these shall hold their peace, the stones will cry out!"

The crowds pressed in, shouting their praises, waving the palms, and more came from the city, running to witness what was happening, and the Pharisees, afraid, fell back and the triumphal procession went into the city to the very gates of the temple porticoes.

All through the first of the week it had been the same. Crowds gathered to hear his teaching. The lame and the blind were healed and made whole. Excitement and expectation followed him as the light of day follows the sun. Now and again the Pharisees and the scribes came like small clouds to tempt him and trick him, but they could not hold back the light of his presence, nor the power of his prophecies.

It was only at night when the people slept that his enemies could whip up the storm that would destroy him, and now - now where were the cheering crowds? Where now were the lame who had been made to walk and the blind who had been made to see? Why had they not come to Golgotha on limbs made whole, why did they not witness the tragedy of his death with those same eyes that had been opened by him to see?

A chill quivered deep within John’s tired body. It was transmitted to the woman beside him through the arm that held her, offering to protect her. She looked up at him and beneath the anguish he saw concern directed toward him. Slowly she opened her lips as if to answer his unspoken thought, his thinly repressed fear.

"I know," she said. "They have forsaken him. All of them. We are the only ones who are left."

He could not bear to look longer into her eyes and he turned from her. Beyond the crosses, two men in the robes of the Sanhedrin were talking with the centurion, and John felt all his emotion twist into loathing and hatred. Then, as they came toward the central cross, he recognized them and he was ashamed of his own malevolence. It was Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus. The centurion had accepted the scroll which they had brought and he held it in his hand idly tapping it against his bare thigh.

John saw that Joseph carried a bundle of linen and Nicodemus a heavy jar of spices which he took to be myrrh and aloes for the burial preparations. At the command of the centurion the soldiers reluctantly dug the rocky ground at the base of the cross until it began to topple. One of the soldiers made as if to restrain it, but when the others did not reach to help him, he leaped back, letting it fall to the earth with a great, wrenching thud. The centurion barked an angry rebuke, but the soldiers were sullen, expressionless, and the sobbing of the women began anew. When the body had been removed from the cross, they went forward to help wrap it in the linen shroud, deftly spreading the spices between its folds. They worked silently, the soldiers watching, quite obviously amazed at the tender care being given the crucified by members of the very court which had first condemned him.

It was only when they had finished and the large white bundle lay extended on the ground that John the disciple felt a sudden concern.

"But where shall we lay him?" he asked.

"Just over the hill," Joseph of Arimathea said quietly. "There is a tomb there in which no man ever was laid. I ... I had secured it against the day of my own burial."

John stared at the two men as they bent down to lift the shrouded figure. A new thought, a sense of appreciation, began to filter through his sorrow. What risk these men were taking! Timid men, really, for he remembered how Nicodemus had come to visit the Lord, coming at night so his peers would not know. But now, they openly demonstrated a courage beyond that of the disciples themselves. They worked in haste so the body would be entombed before sunset when the Jewish authorities might take some ruthless, ugly action to remove the defilement against their holy feast day. A warmth rose in John’s breast, and tears filled his eyes, not with his own sorrow, but with gratitude that there were yet those who cared.

With the women, he followed down the winding, precipitous path between the huge boulders which lined the hillside. Here and there were red flowers, anemonies, their petals folded tight against the darkness. Those few days ago when they had entered Jerusalem the plains had been ablaze with their color. Irrelevantly he remembered how his Lord had loved the countryside. How he had spoken of the lilies, these same scarlet flowers, which grew in such profusion along the hillsides. "Consider the lilies how they grow," he had said. "They toil not neither do they spin, and yet I say to you, even Solomon in all his glory was not clothed as one of these."

He had said this to demonstrate the deep significance of his teaching about God’s care and love, but with the thought, bitter sorrow was renewed. Where now was this loving Father? How could he have let this dreadful thing come to pass?

At the base of the hill was an enlarged cave with a huge sealing stone at one side. The men carried their burden into its dark depths, the women close behind. Carefully they set the form on the stone table at the center of the cave. Then, with a few last touches, they went outside and John helped the men roll the heavy stone across the narrow entrance. For some while they all stood in silence. Dark as the afternoon had been, it was darker now and John was aware that it was long after sunset.

He turned to the women, looked sadly into the eyes of Mary, his Lord’s mother. Without any exchange of conversation she nodded, and he took her arm and they left the tomb and made their slow way toward the city, a sad, hopeless little company so in contrast to the excited procession that so recently had entered Jerusalem to the waving of palm branches and shouted hosannas!

As they walked, John recalled the several times when the Lord had tried to warn them of what was to transpire. He could almost feel the embracing softness of his voice as he said, "Little children, yet a little while I am with you. You will seek me; and as I said to the Jews so now I say to you, ‘Where I am going you cannot come.’ A new commandment I give to you, that you love one another; even as I have loved you, that you also love one another. By this all men will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another."

Involuntarily his grip tightened on the arm of his Lord’s mother. His heart was so full he felt it must surely burst with the pain. For a moment her hand lightly touched his as if to reassure him who was trying to comfort her.

They were at the city gate and Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus deferentially took their leave and the four of them, John the disciple and the three women walked on alone. The streets were nearly deserted, just a few stragglers hurrying toward the temple compound where the noises of the ceremonials already could be heard.

"There was something," John began, halted, words choking in his breast. "Something he said. Just before ... before they took him. We were together for the Passover. And he said ... I did not understand at the time." A wry smile. "Nor do I fully understand now. But he knew. I am sure of that. And I want you to know what he said." He paused and there was only the sound of their sandals shuffling on the dirt, echoing from the still, silent buildings that walled the street. His voice gained more confidence as he began to quote the words of his master as he remembered them. "He said, ‘Let not your hearts be troubled; believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father’s house are many rooms; if it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? And when I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, that where I am there you may be also ... I will not leave you desolate; I will come to you. Yet a little while, and the world will see me no more, but you will see me; because I live, you will live also ... Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you; not as the world gives do I give to you. Let not your hearts be troubled, neither let them be afraid ..."

The women made no reply, not even a sign that they had heard, and the little company moved on through the streets in silence until they came to the place where the disciple John was staying and they all went inside together, closing the door after them, closing it against the crowded city which had shouted hosannas to him who so capriciously was forsaken.