He nearly walked away.
Sunlight sliced across the square, but no one looked his way. The landowners had come and gone since dawn, hiring younger, stronger men. Even the cripple with the crooked foot had been taken. But no one had spoken to Eli.
He shifted on his aching heel and glanced at the hour glass. Almost evening. A full day wasted again.
Then the voice came—unexpected, firm. “You there. Why are you standing here all day doing nothing?”
Eli blinked. A man in a worn cloak stood before him, eyes clear and searching.
“No one’s hired us,” Eli said, glancing toward the few others loitering nearby—old, forgotten men like himself.
The man looked at them with quiet weight... then nodded. “You also go into my vineyard.”
“But it’s almost night,” Eli started, but the man was already turning.
He looked down at his hands—cracked, calloused, good for little now. Then he followed.
The vineyard sat on the side of a hill, the sun low behind it. He passed men already packing away tools, wiping sweat from brows. They stared as he walked in. One younger man scoffed under his breath. "They send help now?"
Eli said nothing. The foreman gave him a basket and pointed him to the far rows. Grapes clung to thick vines, overripe, sticky with juice. His legs burned from the crouch, fingers sore from the press, but with each bunch dropped into the basket, something lighter pressed into his chest—purpose.
For one hour, he worked.
Then the whistle blew. The day was done.
The workers gathered near the storehouse, brushing dust from sleeves, wiping sun from their necks. Eli stood back, waiting, unsure where to go. The master had come. He raised his hand.
“Call the workers and pay them their wages—beginning with the last ones hired.”
Eli's breath caught.
One by one, those who’d worked only an hour stepped forward. The coin placed in his palm was warm. A full denarius.
He blinked at it.
Surely not—surely they meant half. A mistake.
But the others had the same coin.
A murmur rose.
The men who had labored since sunrise stepped forward, hands out, expectant. But when they were given the same, something cracked.
A man in a red sash stepped ahead. “Master,” he said, “these last worked only one hour, and you’ve made them equal to us—who’ve borne the burden and the heat of the day!”
Every eye turned. Eli stared at the ground, shame rising hot on his neck.
But the landowner raised his hand calmly.
“Friend,” he said, “I am not being unfair to you. Didn’t you agree to work for a denarius? Take your pay and go. I want to give the one who was hired last the same as I gave you. Don’t I have the right to do what I want with what is mine? Or are you envious because I am generous?”
Silence.
The man in the red sash stepped back, frowning.
Eli couldn’t move.
He watched the sun stretch its last light across the hills, gold curling over vines and worn hands, over sweat and breath and the weight of something he hadn’t touched in years.
He closed his fingers over the coin.
And held it to his chest.
He nearly walked away.
Sunlight sliced across the square, but no one looked his way. The landowners had come and gone since dawn, hiring younger, stronger men. Even the cripple with the crooked foot had been taken. But no one had spoken to Eli.
He shifted on his aching heel and glanced at the hour glass. Almost evening. A full day wasted again.
Then the voice came—unexpected, firm. “You there. Why are you standing here all day doing nothing?”
Eli blinked. A man in a worn cloak stood before him, eyes clear and searching.
“No one’s hired us,” Eli said, glancing toward the few others loitering nearby—old, forgotten men like himself.
The man looked at them with quiet weight... then nodded. “You also go into my vineyard.”
“But it’s almost night,” Eli started, but the man was already turning.
He looked down at his hands—cracked, calloused, good for little now. Then he followed.
The vineyard sat on the side of a hill, the sun low behind it. He passed men already packing away tools, wiping sweat from brows. They stared as he walked in. One younger man scoffed under his breath. "They send help now?"
Eli said nothing. The foreman gave him a basket and pointed him to the far rows. Grapes clung to thick vines, overripe, sticky with juice. His legs burned from the crouch, fingers sore from the press, but with each bunch dropped into the basket, something lighter pressed into his chest—purpose.
For one hour, he worked.
Then the whistle blew. The day was done.
The workers gathered near the storehouse, brushing dust from sleeves, wiping sun from their necks. Eli stood back, waiting, unsure where to go. The master had come. He raised his hand.
“Call the workers and pay them their wages—beginning with the last ones hired.”
Eli's breath caught.
One by one, those who’d worked only an hour stepped forward. The coin placed in his palm was warm. A full denarius.
He blinked at it.
Surely not—surely they meant half. A mistake.
But the others had the same coin.
A murmur rose.
The men who had labored since sunrise stepped forward, hands out, expectant. But when they were given the same, something cracked.
A man in a red sash stepped ahead. “Master,” he said, “these last worked only one hour, and you’ve made them equal to us—who’ve borne the burden and the heat of the day!”
Every eye turned. Eli stared at the ground, shame rising hot on his neck.
But the landowner raised his hand calmly.
“Friend,” he said, “I am not being unfair to you. Didn’t you agree to work for a denarius? Take your pay and go. I want to give the one who was hired last the same as I gave you. Don’t I have the right to do what I want with what is mine? Or are you envious because I am generous?”
Silence.
The man in the red sash stepped back, frowning.
Eli couldn’t move.
He watched the sun stretch its last light across the hills, gold curling over vines and worn hands, over sweat and breath and the weight of something he hadn’t touched in years.
He closed his fingers over the coin.
And held it to his chest.
