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Poem

In Gethsemane's embrace, where ancient olives dance,
A heart, heavy with fate, in the moon's silent trance.
A soul laden with grief, a chasm so vast,
As the world's weighty sins, upon him were cast.

The disciples, in slumber, knew not the strife,
The torment that twisted, the silent knife.
He lifted his eyes, to the stars above,
A plea for another way, a respite from love.

"Father, if this chalice might pass from my grasp,"
His voice, a soft murmur, a fervent clasp.
Yet his will bowed to a higher decree,
A sacrifice borne, for you and for me.

His brow dripped with sweat, like crimson it fell,
A payment in blood, a personal hell.
His spirit engaged in a battle so dire,
To summon the courage, to light the pyre.

With resolve firmly set, he rose from the ground,
His visage serene, though betrayal was found.
He walked the appointed path, with a love so profound,
To the garden of sorrow, where redemption was crowned.

To the cross on Golgotha, the shadows did call,
Where he bore every sin, and he gave his all.
For the souls of the many, he would not refrain,
He embraced the dark night, to loose every chain.

In the garden of olives, where the whispered began,
The story of salvation, for every woman and man.
A testament of love, in the quiet of night,
He kindled the hope, that would turn darkness to light.

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