It’s Saturday morning and no one had a good night. In his nightmares a centurion rubbed his hands raw trying to get the blood off.  A feverish soldier, feeling like he was enveloped by the fires of hell in his newly-won single-piece tunic, cried out and flung it away in the night. Sanhedrin members tossed and turned fitfully, haunted by the guilt pangs of their misdeeds as their own haughty words bored into their conscience: “Let his blood be on us and on our children.” Pilate, already on a short tether from Caesar for botching the last Jewish riot, did violence to his conscience to avoid another one, and executed an innocent man. His sleep was haunted and his equally tormented wife was driving him crazy with, “I told you so.” Sleep was impossible for the devastated disciples, who feared getting dragged away in the night to the same fate as Jesus. A grief-stricken mother was traumatized by visions of her son’s inhuman torture. Hundreds of temple worshipers stared wide-eyed at their bedroom ceilings, the sound of the 60-foot high 4-inch thick temple curtain ripping from top to bottom still echoing in their ears. The earth had ceased its rock-splitting quakes, but folks still quaked in their beds and terrorized children cried through the night. Innumerable sleepless souls lay in abject despair as the most promising candidate ever for the long-awaited Messiah was crucified before the eyes of thousands. The very rocks cried out. A lost world never felt more lost. And the devil danced till dawn.

But Sunday’s coming…

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