I lay here in this garden,
watching petals downturn their view.
We are quiet, waiting with what
some call the ghosts of
Gethsemane. There was a teacher
and His disciples, whom He
instructed to pray. For sleep would
take them as the Enemy willed.
This teacher became weighted
down, sorrow filling the house of His
troubled soul. He said again, watch,
your flesh is weak, but you have a
willing spirit unable heed to
tempter’s call. Stay with me, won’t
you? This unknown prince, went
before His Father: if it is Your will,
please take this cup from me. Your
will be done, not my own. Going
back, He found His students
sleeping sound. You couldn’t spare
not one hour awake to My grief?
He went again to the secret place
He and His Father communed,
If I must drink from this cup, without
choice, Your will be done.
Again, He found His friends well
worn in dreams. He went a third,
final time to speak with His Father.
The same fervent prayer upon
grieving lips. He came to these
lazed comrades, You are still resting,
sleeping as if today was sent to
waste? The Son will be delivered
into all hands who sin. Come, my
betrayer waits to observe this grief.