From the middle of the night came his anxious prayer.
In the dead silence, long before dawn,
the Savior sent up his voice on a clear line to his father.
His words were the direst ever to reach God’s ears
– a plead for the cup of his crucifixion to pass him by
– and for his father’s will to be done, not his own.
And it was the second part of this appeal that was obliged.
On his knees in the moonlit garden,
surrounded by his followers who’s long since fallen asleep,
the Savior’s fate was fully revealed to him:
hate and pain.
As the torchlight of his accusers came over the hill,
he arose, awakened from his fear.
The cup of pain and bitter sorrow were his to carry
to the cross, where the contents
— like water to wine —
would be changed to love and forgiveness.