In the Garden of Gethsemane
The olive leaves swaying, the air stagnant with despair’s breath,
thy Lord and thy Savior walks as pall approaches, nearing death’s door,
the spirit, ever generous, sleeps whilst the flesh betrays.
Thy flesh's weak, burden with regret, longs to close its worn eyes,
Yet He bidst me, watch with Me for one moment, final, sacred hour,
a torture of love now begins to wash my spirit clean.
He walks a stone's throw further, and I see Him kneel to pray,
thy Lord faces all the darkness, though the daylight seems far away,
I, too, kneel and pray for strength in the shadow of His grace.
The ancient branches angle and twist in silent prayer,
"Not what I will," the Lord whispers, "Let it be thine own will to yield."
The moon, a velvety witness, sees a soul's distressing.
His Lord kneels alone, a bitter cup held in trembling hands,
as the weight of every human sin is grinding on solid ground,
yet, sweat drips down like drops of blood, and still, "Thy will be done.
See thy Lord and thy Savior in such wretched suffering,
but in His pain, yearning emerges; there is no shifting away,
whilst the apostles sleep, one fails in this last company.
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