As Jesus' body hung lifeless on the cross, the Earth itself seemed to rebel against the act just committed. The ground shook violently beneath the feet of the spectators, knocking some off balance. Cliffs around Jerusalem fractured, sending rocks tumbling down their slopes. But most astonishing of all, within the Holy Temple, the massive curtain separating the Holy of Holies from the rest of the sanctuary tore from top to bottom—a divine hand ripping apart the veil that had symbolized the separation between God and humanity for generations.

Those within the temple looked on in utter disbelief, their faces as white as the priestly robes some of them wore. The ripping of the veil had been loud, a roaring tear that had drowned out the prayers and conversations, demanding attention. Censers were dropped, sacrifices forgotten, as priests and worshippers alike stared at the exposed inner chamber. The untouchable had been touched; the impenetrable barrier had been shattered.

Outside, at the foot of the cross, a Roman centurion stood staring up at the lifeless form of Jesus. He had witnessed countless crucifixions in his time, each a testament to Rome's unbending rule. But this—this was different. The signs, the reactions, the darkness, and most of all, the man on the cross had shaken him to his core.

"Surely, he was the Son of God," The roman cuenturion muttered, his voice tinged with awe and a newly found, unsettling fear. The other soldiers glanced at him, then at each other, their faces expressing a mixture of confusion and dawning realization.

Mary, still rooted to the spot, felt her knees give way, and she sank to the ground, her body racked by uncontrollable sobs. John put his arms around her, trying to lend her his strength, but his own eyes were misty. It felt like the world had lost its anchor, and they were adrift in a sea of sorrow and chaos.

As evening approached, Joseph of Arimathea, a secret follower of Jesus, arrived. He had used his influence to gain Pilate's permission to take down Jesus' body for a proper burial. Assisted by Nicodemus, another covert disciple, they removed the cold, stiff body from the cross, their hands trembling, tears mingling with the blood and water that flowed from His pierced side.

They wrapped Him in a linen shroud, their movements slow and reverent, burdened by the weight of what had occurred and what they had lost. As they carried His body to a new tomb carved out of rock, the setting sun seemed to bleed into the horizon, casting a final, crimson glow over the tragic scene.

The massive stone was rolled in front of the tomb’s entrance, sealing it shut. The women who had followed Jesus, including Mary Magdalene, watched from a distance, their faces covered with grief and exhaustion. They were the silent witnesses to where He had been laid, their hearts as heavy as the stone that blocked the entrance.

As night enveloped Jerusalem, the city was restless and unsettled. Families gathered in their homes, their Passover celebrations tainted by the day's grim events. In high priestly chambers and Roman halls, there were whispered conversations, a collective sigh of relief perhaps, but also an undercurrent of doubt, of unease about what had been done.

But in that sealed, dark tomb lay not just the body of Jesus of Nazareth, but also the hopes and dreams of those who had believed in Him. And yet, even in the depths of their despair, in the back of their minds and the pit of their stomachs, a small, almost imperceptible flicker of something remained—was it doubt, or was it hope? The question hung in the air, as palpable as the lingering scent of myrrh and aloes.

It was the Sabbath, a day of rest, but for those who loved Him, rest would not come. Their hearts were restless, their souls in turmoil.

It must be the end.