Another day, another death. One soldier dips a sponge into his daily ration of cheap vinegar and lukewarm water, uses a nearby plant stalk, and lifts the drink into a dying man’s lips. The crossbeam is only a few feet high; he barely raises his arm. A bit later, after shattering the legs of two other men with an iron mallet, hearing the condemned cry out in agony, and watching them suffocate to death, the soldiers look at Jesus. He’s clearly dead, but it doesn’t hurt to check. Now, instead of lifting up a hyssop branch, the soldier drives a lance into his side. Seeing the blood and water pour out, the men nod their heads in confirmation, and move on. John is standing close enough to smell the sour blood and wave the flies away from his eyes. But Jesus doesn’t seem defeated. John hears Jesus say his final word—tetelestai—from a chest that can barely expand. Then Jesus bows his head before he gives up his spirit. Death doesn’t take him. No, Jesus is finishing his mission. Pilate is resting in his quarters. The religious leaders aren’t watching, either, but they are fretting about Passover purity. They’re preparing to feast on roasted lamb while the Lamb of God dies with every bone intact. They’ve conspired to fulfill Exodus 12 and Zechariah 12, but their spiritual understanding is as dull as the Roman soldiers. Decades later, John recalls these events as an eyewitness. He saw Jesus die, yet believed he was alive. His belief cost him everything. His testimony gave Perpetua her belief in Jesus, too. So she walked into a gladiatorial arena. A wild heifer trampled her, then a sword slit her throat.