Login | Support
Images Activity Sheets Books Poetry


by Robert Hawkins © 2000

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.

This poem was a finalist in the March 2020 poetry contest

social media buttons share on facebook share on linked in share on twitter