A Cup Poured Out
(“Father, if you are willing, take this cup away from me—nevertheless, not my will, but yours, be done.” Luke 22:42)It looked
like the wounding of a heart,
a cup poured out of grief and passion.
Are we your children that you could
hold us so tightly it hurt?
What would
I say to you
watching your pain strewn across the
garden floor? How could I intrude
on a moment of intimacy and separation?
But how could any of us leave you deserted;
how could we be so close and you be so alone?
Every
moment in time converged in fervent questions;
each self a smaller self than the one we had spent a lifetime
mastering?
You took the world’s weight upon your shoulders;
you loved us better than a brother. Yet we grew weary
and left you dangling with our desecrated punctuation.
We failed.
We floundered. We sounded like worn-out children
thinking we understood it all. We thought we could capture
a place beside you on the heights.
And how
did we overhear such a prayer that set us
to dozing? Still we slept uneasy while you emptied
your dignity to grab hold of nurture and boldness.
But you let loose of anything but love. You induced
a painful delivery. For who? For us?
We had
come dressed like we were going to a party
while you donned the servant’s garments and
sweat like blood hit the ground. And then we woke
from our slumber to find them taking you away. And
We
panicked.
We were
outnumbered and outmaneuvered,
leaving the imprints of your pain still wed on the ground.
We could not wait for angels; we could not measure
the weakness that transforms human foibles and
finally found us afraid for our lives.
How could
we ignore such a cry from
a friend who asked only that we stay awake?
