A Bitter Cup

The air beat his ears, his heart grasped in pain. The silence ate at his soul, no response to his pleas. His knees were weak and his body was almost laying on the ground, as if under a great weight. Yet still he asked, he asked for a sweeter cup, if it was the will. Tears fell like rain, and mixed with the blood of his sweat. "My soul is sorrowful, even unto death."

Twice he returned to his friends for comfort, and twice they lay sleeping. Rejected and forgotten he could only weep. Already he was slowly draining a bitter cup, and he could feel the presence retreating. And he staggered onward, past the betrayer, beyond a viper's kiss, carrying splintered beams, upon a slashed back, bearing a fool's crown around a mangled head, yet most of all hearing no father's voice and only feeling wrath.

He hardly felt the whip when it fell, or the thorns when they pierced. He distantly saw the giant nails, and heard the hammer fall. More real to him were the fleeing friends, and those who hung beside him. More important to him were the accusing faces, and all the people behind them. Why? Why have you forsaken me? This was his resounding question, but with it was, father forgive. And as his spirit passed, the temples opened. Enter into the thief's peace, and remember the thrice morn glory.

Dt