Tomorrow I go to villages and will heal the sick...it is a joy, a joy rather kin­dred to lying in deep grass in the warm sun.

I have read my journal. I will return it to Matthew’s care. Among our disci­ples he is the most reliable.

ÿ

Sivan 12

So, as I write with my bronze stylus, I listen to the evening, familiar sounds; through my window I see the Milky Way and the great constellations and I am aware God is affirming his handiwork.

I write very slowly, lingering over each letter, the square letters superior to the old script. I go on listening. The lamp burns steadily. There is no wind. There is gratitude.

ÿ

Nazareth

Sivan 17

Father has suffered from his imprisonment. His hands tremble. After seeing me on the cross he is unable to believe that I am alive.