Imagine a garden. Is it what you thought it would be
when the sun was stolen and the son knelt down
amidst the discarded leaves and unsprung life.
Your eyes close but not in prayer,
you stare into the void of night
and sight dims with fatigue.
You clasped your hands, the same hands
that had grasped the cup of wine
just hours before; they still tremble.
Your voice raises no cry to heaven
instead the melody of sleep permeates the air
as the heir to the kingdom searches God.
Take this cup, this suffering, this night and tomorrow
if only you will, but still your will not mine be done,
on earth as it is in heaven.