Gethsemane

The Lord is in the garden, weeping — 
prostrate, anguished — all alone.
Not far away His friends are sleeping,
using pillows made of stone.
 
There in the darkness, time is fleeting — 
racing toward His destiny.
His weary voice is heard repeating,
Father, take this cup from Me.
 
More fervently the Lord is pleading — 
mouthing words without a sound.
From sorrow, He has started bleeding
crimson droplets on the ground.
 
Disciples — one by one — awaken.
Jesus tells them as they stand,
The Son of Man will soon be taken.
Rise, the hour is at hand.
 
Bright torches in the distance — nearing;
shouts and voices pierce the night.
Then Judas walks into the clearing — 
soldiers to his left and right.
 
To Judas and the crowd behind him
Jesus asks, Whom do you seek?
All eyes await the sign to bind Him — 
Judas kisses Jesus’ cheek.
 
A glint of steel — a blade is wheeling — 
Peter cuts off someone’s ear.
A call for peace — a touch of healing,
Jesus’ friends run off in fear.
 
Surrounded by the priests and soldiers — 
centered in His Father’s will.
The world’s weight upon His shoulders — 
stretched out on Golgotha's hill.