That place where the sun never rises, where sorrow never sleeps, where the trees watch somber as the grave;
That place where the rocks are rent from the struggle, where the earth soaks salt and red,
where the dew lays crystal blankets over bowed and fervent head;
That place where the songbird never warbles, where faithful friends nod off, where trembling hand takes bitter, burning cup, and one swallows. And where a kiss doesn’t mean what it ought…
That place is called Gethsemane.
I know, dread horror.
But oh, wait. Before you follow instinct, wait. If you’re brought here… do not flee away. Clutch the cold ground and take the cup. Whatever. bitter. cup. Yours can’t end in death, only in morning.
This garden is no longer an eternal grave.
If you’ve been invited here, it’s to find His company. This is the only place in the universe where one can be alone, together. Because He’s “alone” here too…