It’s Monday evening. The chaos and collision of grace and law appeared in the violent light of day. Those who sought to turn worship into a business met the displeasure of the only One worthy of worship. The crash of coins and cages… Today the Son of Man personified the voice of the ancient prophetic song: “Away with your religious festivals; your assemblies are a stench to me. Away with them!” Guards, numerous and powerful failed to arrest Him before a host of witnesses. What army could lay a hand on the Creator of galaxies? This was not His day to die. There was bread to be broken, assurances to be offered, and it was only Monday. The government would soon be on His shoulders- as would the weight of my sin. This would happen soon but not today.

It’s Monday evening.

It’s Sunday evening. The road is scattered with green branches quickly turning brown, trampled by a festival of triumph. The darkness settles in as shadows fall on the city sky. It seems as if the shouts still echo through its gates. His feet drenched in alabaster and tears. He begins his walk toward the torment of a world’s curse. Mary senses things only a mother could feel. The week begins. Jesus weeping alone. No one else was less deserving of Friday. But in a transcendent, eternal sense there was no one else in the history of the universe qualified for Friday. A deep and unfathomable dichotomy of grace and truth, joy and sorrow, pain and bliss. It’s Sunday evening.