The Agony in the Garden

Here, in this quiet place,
among the thin dark shadows
that pierce My world with solitude . . .
I feel as if My senses
have never been more alive . . .
the smell of the earth . . .
the cool wind against My face . . .
yet, I have never been so filled with fear . . .
and still you sleep.
 
The certainty of the coming day . . .
the ruthless humiliation . . .
the unimaginable pain . . .
they gather and swarm about Me . . .
circling . . . closing . . .
stalking Me with tight fisted terror . . .
and still you sleep.
 
The hand of compassion has been withdrawn.
The consolation of a familiar voice goes unspoken.
 
Yes, I am sure you will regret . . .
you will remember . . .
and you will tell stories:
“He came . . . He suffered . . . He died . . .”
but it is not that simple . . .
it is not as simple as all that . . .
for My heart is not an empty room,
and My sorrow is not a stoic rock . . .
 
My friends . . . My friends . . .
Why have you abandoned Me?