It's Thursday night. Darker than usual. Jesus has just finished the Passover dinner. Washed His disciples feet. Taken the cup. Watched Judas walk out. The end has come.
The unsuspecting eleven follow Him through the quiet city streets. Flying high on the heels of the triumphal entry, they are giddy with what-might-be. The conquering Son of David soon to sit on His rightful throne. Somewhere a candle flickers. Then another. They descend the Hill of the City of David and Jesus approaches the Brook Kidron. Higher on the hill above them, the clear spring bubbles up out of the earth, circulates through the grounds of the temple, and fills the ceremonial cleansing pools. From there it washes out the blood of the morning and evening sacrifices, then it descends the hill.
When it rolls beneath their feet, it smells of death.
Jesus stands on the stone bridge that crosses the brook. Glancing over His shoulder. The smell fills His nostrils. Fitting. He enters the Garden. Gethsemane. This is the place where the olives are crushed. Where the oil is poured out. This too is fitting…