All is quiet in Gethsemane this evening,
except the knot of men gathering in a dark
corner of the olive garden. Even Peter
is napping, unable to face the warning
of pending events. The Master alone is aware,
as the squat branches throw what comfort
they can over his urgent prayer.
The shadows deepen. As the schemers now
approach, he knows that the way for the cup
to be passed is to drink it. So he rises,
equipped for the draught, and quickly
wakens Peter, the others, welcomes Judas,
whose soft kiss is first bitter drop.
In four days he'll stand in the white
robes of resurrection, offering proof
even Thomas will understand. Behind him
the plaited thorns, the memory of Golgotha,
the winding sheet, the sepulcher stone.
Before him still: final ascension—
the cross transmuted by crown.
