I write poetry from time to time. It’s almost Easter, so I’ll share this one…
Prelude:
Of the four gospels, three record Jesus’ time of agony in the Gethsemane. All except John’s gospel. John reduces the incident to one verse 18:1. Why would John, who was present along with Peter and James leave this part out? This, I imagine is what he might of said.
In the Garden
We followed Him, our Rabbi King along the moonlit trail
That crossed the Kidron valley brook and up mount Olive’s hill
And singing softly David’s psalm along that winding slope
We sang with deep and reverent praise the ancient words of hope.
This is a day the Lord has made. Be glad, oh hearts rejoice
And in our eyes its marvelous. Sing praise. Lift up your voice.
The stone the builders threw away is now the cornerstone
And we envisioned as we sang our Rabbi on His throne.
We reached the sloping Olive grove and Jesus bid them stay
And taking Peter, James and John He went a little ways
Farther still through gnarly trees in solitude of night
The air grew thick with vile intent and set our hearts affright.
No more the hymns to celebrate. In silence we did walk
We saw the sorrow in His step and felt a sense of shock
A shroud of anguish graced His neck. But why, we could not say
We stopped and Jesus bid us sit. “Keep watch” He said, “and pray.”
He left us there to walk alone. A stone throw from our place
I watched Him go and saw Him fall prostrate upon His face
A moan escaped His trembling lips. I heard His anguished cry
“Abba, Father take this cup! Yet not my will but Thine.”
I looked at Peter’s face and saw a mirror of dismay
We sat ourselves upon the ground and James began to pray
The grass was soft. The hour late. Our souls a mournful heap
And heavy eyes gave way at last and soon we were asleep.
An hour passed. Our Lord alone awash in sorrow’s flood
And being in great agony He sweated drops of blood
“Abba, Father must I drink this cup prepared for me?”
“None the less, not what I will but what You will shall be”
He came then to the three of us and roused our tired heads
“How is it that you fall asleep? Keep watch and pray” He said
“I see the spirit’s willing, but the flesh itself is weak”
And I ashamed could not look up or find my voice to speak.
He left us then, His lonely walk among the olive trees
And once again I saw Him fall like lead unto His knees
I sensed the very trees themselves bow low in deep despair
So great did anguish weight His soul that sorrow filled the air.
Three times the Rabbi woke us up. Three times we fell asleep
We didn’t know or understand what grief this night would reap
For in that garden was the birth of all that would befall
When He obeyed and seized the cup to drink it’s bitter gall.
(If anyone knows how to turn off this spacing, I sure would appreciate it.)