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Beads of Blood
In The Garden of Gethsemane, Jesus fell to His knees As He cried to His Father, let this cup pass from me His anguish and pain I could never imagine Sweat turning to blood, as He begged for compassion In the midst of the garden, on the ground, as he knelt Surrounded by darkness, how alone he must have felt His disciples nearby, they had fallen asleep A promise to watch, they had failed to keep Not for an hour could they watch as Jesus prayed As the fog covered the garden in a hazy gray With swollen eyes from where Jesus had wept He silently stood before them as they slept The paths He must have worn from constant pace The urgency He held in seeking God's face How His tears must have fallen and soaked the ground Listening for the voice of His Father in every sound As the years of His life flashed before His eyes Wanting so much to live and so afraid to die Yes, He was God but He was just as much man He grieved in the thought of carrying out God's plan His love, much greater than the pain A sacrificial man to be beaten and slain Could He feel the pain with each strike of the whip Hanging from His body, His flesh torn and ripped Could He hear the mob, question Pilate's decision To put this man to death, I have no reason I wash my hands of His blood, did He hear Pilate's words As the mob cries crucify Him, my Savior and Lord As He prayed could He feel the weight of the old rugged cross Could He feel the betrayal and rejection from a world so lost Could He hear the mockery, the laughter, the taunting and scorn On His head could He feel the piercing from a crown of thorns Could He feel the nails to be driven into His hands The piercing of His feet, the thought could He stand Could He hear the soldiers as they gambled for His robe Could He see His naked body displayed, His dignity they stole Could He imagine His body, marred beyond recognition Beaten and bruised from a mad world's decision Could He feel His bones being crushed from within His organs exposed from the tearing of His skin Could He feel the roof of his mouth, the cling of His tongue With each breath grasped, air was blocked from His lungs Could He hear His own voice, as He begged for one sip Did He taste the bitterness of vinegar as it touched his lips Did He foresee the moment of His last breath Could He feel His body pass from life unto death Could He feel the spear that pierced His side Could He see His father turn His back and hide Did His mind race from one thing to another Did He experience the terror over and over Did He vomit in anguish of ever vision He saw The suffering He would endure under secular law Was His body drenched from sweat, triggered by fear Could He hear the steps of His destiny drawing near Did He clinch His fist until His nails were worn Grieved and sickened from within, did His soul mourn As I close my eyes, I can see His face From tan to pale His color replaced I can hear His voice full of grief and much sorrow As I know He must have begged for another tomorrow His body shook of convulsions as terror filled His soul From shock His body turning clammy and cold I can hear devastation, as He kneels to pray Such a precious gift to man, for our debt He must pay If ever I should be blessed to visit Israel's great land In the Garden of Gethsemane is where I want to stand I want to seek out the very place where Jesus fell to His knees Where the beads of blood fell on behalf of you and me How I wish I could travel to that very night To kneel by my Savior and hold Him tight To wipe His blood, sweat and tears away To seek God on His behalf and diligently pray The Garden of Gethsemane, a story forever to hold The pleading of a Savior, the depth of suffering untold Holding the cries of Jesus, as for His life He pled As captivity enslaved Him, to His death He was led Written by: Donetta Harless Tuesday, July 26, 2016
Copyright © 2022 Donetta Harless. All Rights Reserved