Yuhanna stood, at that hour, among the peasants and farmers, on a high roof, pondering the scene sadly, bitterly sighing, a painful lump in his throat. On one side he saw ornamented silk clothes, jewel-studded gold vessels, extravagant silver censers and braziers, on the other a mass of the poor and destitute who had come from small villages and farms to witness the gaiety of this Easter and to celebrate the consecration of the church. On one side, grandeur robed in velvet and satin, and on the other, misery wrapped in worn and tattered rags. Here stands a powerful, wealthy faction representing religion with its chants and praises, and there stands a weak and despised people rejoicing in their souls at the resurrection of Jesus from the dead and silently praying, whispering into the ears of the ether hot sighs that issue from the depths of broken hearts. Here stand chiefs and authorities, whose power bestows on them lives resembling cypress trees that remain green all year round. There stand paupers and peasants, whose submissiveness makes their lives like a ship, captained by death, its rudder broken upon the waves, its sails shredded by fierce gales, tossed between plunging troughs and rising crests, between the wrath of watery chasms and the horror of the tempest. Here stands cruel tyranny, there blind obedience. Which generated the other, then? Is despotism a strong tree that can grow only in depressed lowlands, or is deference an abandoned field wherein only thorns can flourish?

Yuhanna busied himself with these painful ideas and tormenting thoughts. Meanwhile, he folded his forearms across his upper chest, his throat so constricted that he had trouble getting his breath and feared that his breast would be rent asunder, throat, trachea, and all. When the consecration festivities ended, and the people began to depart and scatter, he felt as though a spirit in the air was giving him a commission and exhorting him. In the crowd was a power that galvanized his soul and appointed him to speak before the heavens and the earth, a prisoner of his will.

He advanced to the side of the roof, lifting his eyes and gesturing with his hand toward the firmament, and in a powerful voice that caught the ear and attracted stares, he shouted: “Look, O Jesus of Nazareth, seated in the center of the most high circle of light! Peer behind the azure dome at this earth, in the elements of which you attired yourself only yesterday. See, Faithful Guardian, how the thorns of the wilderness have choked the flowers, whose seeds take root through the sweat of your brow. Look, Good Shepherd, for the talons of savage beasts have pierced the side of the hapless lamb, which you had carried upon your shoulders. Look, for your pure blood has seeped into the earth, your hot tears have dried in the hearts of humankind, your warm breaths have perished before the desert winds. This field, which your own feet have blessed, has become a killing field wherein the hooves of the strong crush the ribs of the despised, and the claws of oppressors have plucked the soul from the weak . . .