Donetta Harless | + Follow Poet |
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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

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