The Gethsemane Prayer
The brethren have joined me in the upper room. It is the Passover Feast. The aromas of the lamb, the bitter herbs and flat bread are a delight to my senses. This is when my people remember their release from the bonds of slavery, my protections, and the bitter with the sweet. Moses led them out of bondage. I will break the bonds of death. Judas, my poor friend, never really knew me. He became like the money changers in the temple, blinded by the purse and the silver inside, blinded to the balm of my love and the glory of my salvation. We sang an hymn of praise to Father before we left the upper room then I bid the brethren to come with me to the Mount of Olives, to a garden called Gethsemane. I lingered, the cool of the evening breeze upon my face. My hands did not tremble when earlier I broke the bread, but they tremble now.
The brethren would not stay awake even to pray with me! I am alone in this intercessory prayer, save for the momentary comfort of an Angel, which strengthened me only enough to bear up this weight. The load of my suffering has increased beyond understanding. My hands claw the dirt . My body is writhing, seeking one spot of relief, but there is none. There is an inexorable squeezing within my chest. My lungs are pressed in a vise. My bowels turn on themselves in an anguished dance. Each muscle and sinew is drawn to the extremity. My bones throb as excruciating pressure tries to burst them apart, joint and limb. My heart is shattered with the inexpressible horror of absolute isolation and despair. Fugues of agony wash over me. My mind is stabbed with hot, sharp daggers of regret. Each sin, error, and sorrow, screams into my brain in flashes of tearful faces, mouths pleading for release, eyes clenched and fists beating the ground in piteous groveling, frenzied violence, and epochs of war. Sins, pains, and afflictions, engulfing me, blinding me. My world has become dark and terrible, as I am swallowed into the blackest black of creation. My robes soak red, as the screw on the press is turned, crushing me, blood hemorrhaging from my skin. This prayer for the sins of the world, scorching and fierce, is a bitter, shrinking cup . But I take it in. Then I am left cold, the blood grown sticky. My muscles seize, and it is awhile before my body stills and my sensibility is restored. I rise, my robes sodden with blood, mud, leaves and sticks clinging to them. A ways off a torch lights the faces of a mob. Judas points his finger my direction. I call to the brethren and Peter jumps to his feet. He acts rashly and smites one of the men on the ear with his sword. My strength ebbing, I pick up the piece of the man's ear, hold it to his head, and heal him. Peter is at once furious and ashamed. Judas embraces me and then I am bound, and taken, pushed out of the garden and down the hill, back to Jerusalem.
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