Jesus signs - or obvious literary devices

He rubbed his palms then massaged his forehead which seemed to tingle with a thousand scratches. In his shoes the soles of his feet ached. He put down the hammer and the nails and straightened his back, leaning for a moment against the wooden strut, outstretching his arms, sighing "why, why?" and then he picked up the cup of wine, placed the bread on his tongue, chewed and washed it down with a small swallow, the red liquid warming his liver. He rubbed his beard against the grain and set back to work, head dripping in the heat, little beads that stained the dust at his feet. His hands ached and soon he needed again to stop. Three days. Three days of pain and torture. He pushed open the impossible hinges of the heavy door and walked out into the disbelieving stares of his family - he hoped it would be worth it. He hoped.