Gethsemane

Your human nature gripped by fear
Though union’d with Divinity
You grasp at root, at dust, at stone
Lord Jesus, on Your knees, alone.

The night so still, an eerie glow
interrupts shadows cast by the moon
No wind to sift through leaves below
Stark silence since the upper room.

As moments pass, chest heaves in pain
You see the wrong that I will do
Yet endure gladly for my stain
To draw my heart nearer to You.

Allow me, Lord, to come and help
You get up off Your knees
To wipe the blood-sweat off Your face
Your agony appease.

Not e’en one hour I wait with You
Now on Your knees again
I drift to sleep whilst You pour out
Your heartfelt plea for men.

Though spirit willing, flesh is weak
And my will, weaker still
You make me know its You I seek
that You alone fulfil

The night wears on and You, O Lord,
begin to tire from grief
Tormented by our hardened hearts
our sins, our unbelief.

I would not dare to interfere
with Your foretold redemptive act
But let me walk the way with You
At least in prayer if not in fact.

Now others to the garden come
Your victory will soon be won.
You freely choose the bitter cup
To torture and death You give Yourself up

Taken by thugs, betrayed by a friend
Your death: our bond with Father, mend.

– – – – –
(A dusty sketch from 16 October, 2011)