Outside a city filled with thousands who had made their annual Passover journey, He prays.
He knows soon they will come for Him. With swords and torches. Including one He loved despite his betrayal for a handful of silver.
The words to His father echo in His chest as He faces His own death and the redemption of all man-kind.
The crushing of the serpent’s head.
Long has man desired hope. The promise of a Savior. Yet, too blinded by their traditions and the lies of the enemy to see Him in their midst.
And that night while they celebrated and feasted on bitter herbs and remembered the flight from Egypt, He prayed for them. He knew how their shouts of Hosanna would soon to be replaced by a call for execution.
Though they didn’t realize it, He was their hope.
There salvation. Their redemption.
Within hours He would walk back outside the borders of the city. Bloody from beatings at the hands of those He was redeeming. His hands and feet would be driven though with nails.
And there at Golgotha, hope would die on a cross.
His mother and friends looked on as He breathed His last. All their hopes of salvation, rescue from their oppressors now hung dead.
But this is not the end of the story.
For if this were the end, we [you and I] would not have hope today.
For hope did not stay buried, but rose with new life.
To give life.