The donkey stumbled near the ridge, and Ephraim jerked the reins harder than necessary.
"Watch where you step, fool," he muttered, though it was his own fault, distracted by the noise below.
Jerusalem spread out beneath the hill, the stones of its walls glowing under the afternoon sun. People shouted Hosanna in fits and waves, palms waving like branches in a storm. They lined the road, crowding toward the man just ahead.
Jesus.
Ephraim wasn’t a disciple. He hadn’t left his nets or his home in Magdala like Peter or the others. He was a neighbor’s son, old enough to carry water and keep a donkey steady, young enough to still wonder what it all meant.
But he had seen things.
He’d watched lepers walk clean back into their villages, faces uncovered. He’d seen a widow's son sit up from the stretcher as if from sleep. And once, standing far back near the edge of the crowd, Ephraim had met Jesus’ eyes—just for a breath—and felt something sharp and warm thrum under his ribs.
Now Jesus was still moving, but the crowds were thinning up the ridge. There were no palms laid here, no cloaks on the path—just scattered stones and a strange hush in the air.
Ephraim tightened his grip on the reins and glanced forward. Jesus had stopped.
His shoulders were drawn inward.
There was a sound—small, sharp, ugly in its intimacy.
He was weeping.
Ephraim froze.
Jesus’ head was bent, his body unmoving but for the tremble of one hand braced on the donkey’s neck. From where Ephraim stood, it looked as if the city itself had broken Him.
“If you knew…” Jesus whispered. It was not to them, not to anyone. “Even today—what brings peace.”
The words flattened in the hot air.
Ephraim’s mouth went dry. He looked toward the city. The shouts had drifted down the hill again. Barely audible. Like echoes fading from stone.
“They will come,” Jesus said, louder now, eyes on the city. “Your enemies. They will build ramparts and hem you in. They will crush your children where they stand. Not one stone will be left…”
The wind caught his robe. Ephraim took a step forward without meaning to.
Jesus turned slightly. His face shone, wet with grief. But there was no rage. No heat. Only sorrow curled like smoke behind his eyes.
“You did not recognize the time of God’s visitation,” He said.
Ephraim staggered under the weight of it. Not the judgment—but the ache behind it, as if Jesus had offered His own heart to the city and it had been thrown back broken.
Below them, the sun gilded the temple roof. There were songs. Drums, maybe. Celebration for a king they thought had come to conquer.
Ephraim looked back at Jesus. His tears still fell.
He took off his own cloak and knelt, laying it gently on the path before the Redeemer’s feet, though the dust was dry and there was no longer any crowd to watch.
Jesus saw it.
And nodded, barely.
Ephraim lowered his head, the silence between them heavier than any victory song.
The donkey stumbled near the ridge, and Ephraim jerked the reins harder than necessary.
"Watch where you step, fool," he muttered, though it was his own fault, distracted by the noise below.
Jerusalem spread out beneath the hill, the stones of its walls glowing under the afternoon sun. People shouted Hosanna in fits and waves, palms waving like branches in a storm. They lined the road, crowding toward the man just ahead.
Jesus.
Ephraim wasn’t a disciple. He hadn’t left his nets or his home in Magdala like Peter or the others. He was a neighbor’s son, old enough to carry water and keep a donkey steady, young enough to still wonder what it all meant.
But he had seen things.
He’d watched lepers walk clean back into their villages, faces uncovered. He’d seen a widow's son sit up from the stretcher as if from sleep. And once, standing far back near the edge of the crowd, Ephraim had met Jesus’ eyes—just for a breath—and felt something sharp and warm thrum under his ribs.
Now Jesus was still moving, but the crowds were thinning up the ridge. There were no palms laid here, no cloaks on the path—just scattered stones and a strange hush in the air.
Ephraim tightened his grip on the reins and glanced forward. Jesus had stopped.
His shoulders were drawn inward.
There was a sound—small, sharp, ugly in its intimacy.
He was weeping.
Ephraim froze.
Jesus’ head was bent, his body unmoving but for the tremble of one hand braced on the donkey’s neck. From where Ephraim stood, it looked as if the city itself had broken Him.
“If you knew…” Jesus whispered. It was not to them, not to anyone. “Even today—what brings peace.”
The words flattened in the hot air.
Ephraim’s mouth went dry. He looked toward the city. The shouts had drifted down the hill again. Barely audible. Like echoes fading from stone.
“They will come,” Jesus said, louder now, eyes on the city. “Your enemies. They will build ramparts and hem you in. They will crush your children where they stand. Not one stone will be left…”
The wind caught his robe. Ephraim took a step forward without meaning to.
Jesus turned slightly. His face shone, wet with grief. But there was no rage. No heat. Only sorrow curled like smoke behind his eyes.
“You did not recognize the time of God’s visitation,” He said.
Ephraim staggered under the weight of it. Not the judgment—but the ache behind it, as if Jesus had offered His own heart to the city and it had been thrown back broken.
Below them, the sun gilded the temple roof. There were songs. Drums, maybe. Celebration for a king they thought had come to conquer.
Ephraim looked back at Jesus. His tears still fell.
He took off his own cloak and knelt, laying it gently on the path before the Redeemer’s feet, though the dust was dry and there was no longer any crowd to watch.
Jesus saw it.
And nodded, barely.
Ephraim lowered his head, the silence between them heavier than any victory song.
