In the obscure hills of the southern Sinai desert, the late afternoon hangs heavy—hot, breathless, bruised with wind and dust. The sun lowers like a burning shield, and the wilderness seems to hold the assembled men in a grip of exhaustion ... and death.

Death has drawn its jagged signature across the faces of the warriors and priests. Grief sits on them like desert ash. Their leader is gone. The man who met with God on the mountain. The miracle man. The man who faced Pharaoh, parted the sea, struck the rock, carried the tablets, and stood between God and a nation.

Moses is dead.

The rescuer is now just a memory. The voice that thundered through their fear is silent. The staff that split waters lies still. A generation that followed footsteps must now follow faith. They have none.

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