Gethsemane

Thine once cradled head,

Again lifted up to settling evening

Turned silent night.

Swaying olive branches in the wind,

All alone.

Heart pounding at the realization of what tomorrow brings,

At the cusp of death; a cup

So deep the pit of your stomach hollows.

You cry for what’s to come.

You lift your eyes to the stars you made,

How small you’ve made yourself.

You cry for what’s to come.

Greif fills the garden,

Is there no other way?

It’s so hard to be here,

This flesh is failing, and it will fail tomorrow.

It will give out tomorrow.

It will die tomorrow.

What a scary thing it is to die.

The deepest pit to fall in,

How much will it hurt before hitting bottom?

If breathing is agony now, how much more then?

Sweat turns to blood,

For this is too much.

To drink, until you are poured out?

“Father, all things are possible with you!

Take this cup away!

Father, all things are possible with you...

Father, all things are possible with you.

So not what I will, but what you will.”

Tears turn to faith,

The bitter cup that must be drunk is placed

In your outstretched hands.

And you pray,

For tomorrow you drink.

Tomorrow, you die.

You cry for what’s to come.

Then the one who wipes away every tear wipes his own.

Stands.

And sets his face towards us:

Eating.

Drinking.

Being merry.

While tomorrow, you die.