I have touched the ground that led to his death. At the rock where he died I have prayed, lighting candles, kneeling on the ground, weeping until my soul runs dry. In the shadows Ethiopian nuns keep the round of prayer, still attending to Jesus, meeting him on the way with silence and with sighs too deep for words. They keep the faith, unfettered while Franciscans chant and Italian tourists misbehave. I seem to crawl into His tomb.
Nothing is as it was.
Time has watched men hollow out the rocks for endless processions round this empty site. But here I feel a grief that must remain as a perpetual sign for all who behold the Man. Beside me a tiny lady from Peru prays to alleviate the suffering of His Mother. Later she tells me prayer is bigger than time. Life is bigger than death.