He lowered the price again.
“Two for one shekel!” Ezra shouted. “Lambs without blemish, perfect for the altar—look!”
His throat burned from the dust and the shouting. His coin pouch was lighter than it should’ve been by midday. Too many buyers going past him, toward Malachai’s heavier pen. Ezra glanced at his lambs—meek, trembling, already dirt-splattered.
“Altar-worthy,” he muttered. He tugged the gate closed and stood to block the sun from his eyes. The Temple was roaring today—coins ringing, men haggling, birds squawking from crowded cages stacked like firewood. The incense smoke didn’t hide the stench of dung.
He hated this place. Hated what he had become in it.
The first time he’d come to Jerusalem, he’d stood inside the Court clutching his father’s calloused hand, blinking at the grandeur, breath caught as the priest lifted the offering and sang the ancient words. That had been twenty Passovers ago.
Now he was the man with the lambs.
Now he lined his pockets with coins that clinked more than they should’ve.
“Business,” he whispered.
From the far end of the courtyard, a noise rose—sharp, dense, unfamiliar. Not the low ripple of debate, but a crack like rope against stone. People turned. A shout. Tables overturned. Coins spilled like hail across the marble.
Ezra took a step forward, then stopped.
It was a man—just a man, but not like the others. Not buying, not selling, not even looking around to see who watched him. His face was tight with something—not rage, exactly. A slow, controlled storm.
He upended another table.
Doves flapped wildly from cracked cages. The man swept his arm through a heap of scales and cords, sending them clattering into shadow.
Merchants screamed. Temple guards hesitated.
Ezra couldn’t move.
Then the man was at the cattle pens. He held a braided whip, thick with fibers, and drove the animals before him—out. Out. They obeyed. They fled the gate as if it were freedom.
People backed away, parted like fabric at the tear.
And then the man turned toward him.
Ezra wanted to shelter the lambs.
But the man didn’t strike. He didn’t shout.
Instead he looked at Ezra, through him—past skin, past street-dust and profit and shame. His gaze wasn’t violent. It was wounded.
Ezra’s throat dried.
“Stop making my Father’s house a market,” the man said quietly.
The moment held—burned—and passed.
He turned again, walking deeper into the shattered court, toward the Holy Place where no one touched.
Someone muttered, “Who is he?”
Another: “They say this is the one from Cana—the miracle there…”
Voices surrounded Ezra, but he couldn't follow them. His eyes stayed on the man’s silhouette.
A temple, and this was the One who claimed it.
Ezra knelt before his lambs. Dust coated their white coats. One bleated—thin, fearful.
He ran his knuckles over his chin. His hands smelled like money and straw. His whole life had been this—bartering blessing for gain, slipping sacrifice into market price. He had thought of it as serving.
He looked up again. The chaos was quieting.
He saw the man speaking with learned men, who folded their arms and asked Him for proof.
“Destroy this temple,” the man said, “and in three days I will raise it up.”
They laughed.
Ezra did not.
He looked at the lambs.
He undid the pen’s latch. Opened it wide.
He didn’t call them. Just stepped aside.
One by one, the animals nosed through the opening.
He stood there, empty-handed, as they went.
And when the last one had gone, he sank to his knees in the dirt.
He didn’t speak.
He didn’t need to.
He lowered the price again.
“Two for one shekel!” Ezra shouted. “Lambs without blemish, perfect for the altar—look!”
His throat burned from the dust and the shouting. His coin pouch was lighter than it should’ve been by midday. Too many buyers going past him, toward Malachai’s heavier pen. Ezra glanced at his lambs—meek, trembling, already dirt-splattered.
“Altar-worthy,” he muttered. He tugged the gate closed and stood to block the sun from his eyes. The Temple was roaring today—coins ringing, men haggling, birds squawking from crowded cages stacked like firewood. The incense smoke didn’t hide the stench of dung.
He hated this place. Hated what he had become in it.
The first time he’d come to Jerusalem, he’d stood inside the Court clutching his father’s calloused hand, blinking at the grandeur, breath caught as the priest lifted the offering and sang the ancient words. That had been twenty Passovers ago.
Now he was the man with the lambs.
Now he lined his pockets with coins that clinked more than they should’ve.
“Business,” he whispered.
From the far end of the courtyard, a noise rose—sharp, dense, unfamiliar. Not the low ripple of debate, but a crack like rope against stone. People turned. A shout. Tables overturned. Coins spilled like hail across the marble.
Ezra took a step forward, then stopped.
It was a man—just a man, but not like the others. Not buying, not selling, not even looking around to see who watched him. His face was tight with something—not rage, exactly. A slow, controlled storm.
He upended another table.
Doves flapped wildly from cracked cages. The man swept his arm through a heap of scales and cords, sending them clattering into shadow.
Merchants screamed. Temple guards hesitated.
Ezra couldn’t move.
Then the man was at the cattle pens. He held a braided whip, thick with fibers, and drove the animals before him—out. Out. They obeyed. They fled the gate as if it were freedom.
People backed away, parted like fabric at the tear.
And then the man turned toward him.
Ezra wanted to shelter the lambs.
But the man didn’t strike. He didn’t shout.
Instead he looked at Ezra, through him—past skin, past street-dust and profit and shame. His gaze wasn’t violent. It was wounded.
Ezra’s throat dried.
“Stop making my Father’s house a market,” the man said quietly.
The moment held—burned—and passed.
He turned again, walking deeper into the shattered court, toward the Holy Place where no one touched.
Someone muttered, “Who is he?”
Another: “They say this is the one from Cana—the miracle there…”
Voices surrounded Ezra, but he couldn't follow them. His eyes stayed on the man’s silhouette.
A temple, and this was the One who claimed it.
Ezra knelt before his lambs. Dust coated their white coats. One bleated—thin, fearful.
He ran his knuckles over his chin. His hands smelled like money and straw. His whole life had been this—bartering blessing for gain, slipping sacrifice into market price. He had thought of it as serving.
He looked up again. The chaos was quieting.
He saw the man speaking with learned men, who folded their arms and asked Him for proof.
“Destroy this temple,” the man said, “and in three days I will raise it up.”
They laughed.
Ezra did not.
He looked at the lambs.
He undid the pen’s latch. Opened it wide.
He didn’t call them. Just stepped aside.
One by one, the animals nosed through the opening.
He stood there, empty-handed, as they went.
And when the last one had gone, he sank to his knees in the dirt.
He didn’t speak.
He didn’t need to.
