Gethsemane

Will no one wake and watch this night with me?
—Not one. All scattered on the moon-blanched soil,
disciples still as stones in deepest sleep,
fleeing his face and rush of sacrifice:
in this harsh garden, flint-heart of the world
fallen on evil days and evil ways—
Gethsemane, where the olive’s pressed to oil,
even as he, crushed by Almighty God,
cries out, O Lord, let pass this bitter cup...
kneeling in anguish, dying drop by drop.

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