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Grove of olive, silent witness,
to a scene of intense struggle,
in the soul of Christ our Savior,
crushed by grief and agony.

See the one who is Creator,
of the earth, of trees, and flowers.
Stripped of angels’ adoration,
lying prostrate on the ground.

Grove of olive, silent witness,
bow your branches, look, and listen.
Hear his cries of earnest pleading,
in that awful, dreaded hour.

“If from this cup I must partake,
Father, may your will be done,”
are the words Christ speaks in anguish
as he lies prostrate on the ground.

Grove of gnarly roots and branches,
whose produce nourishes and heals
spread your roots and be ye nourished,
by Christ’ tears and blood-tinged sweat.

Grove of olive, silent witness,
to such striking contradictions.
Sacrificial love outpouring,
betrayed by the objects of his love.

Tell me of my Savior’s travail,
in the cradle of your bosom.
Of thoughts with which he wrestled,
when he prayed, “let this cup pass.”

Was it death by crucifixion,
with its pain and suffering?
Tell me grove, thou silent witness,
what dreadful secrets do you hold?

Since you ask, then I must tell you,
why he prayed, “let this cup pass.”
Sin would cause his separation,
from His dear Father up above.

As Christ feels sin’s heavy burden,
Blood-tinged sweat flows from his veins.
Satan and his evil minions,
stalks him like lions on the hunt.
 
Humankind, you are the reason,
for his great grief and agony.
Bow your knees in awe, and worship,
beside your Savior on the ground.

Be not like the twelve disciples,
or like Judas and the rabble.
Hear your Savior gently saying,
Gethsemane was meant for thee.

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