What terrifying grief housed in your heart that still night;
What rumbling passion flowing in your veins.

What joyous tears shed at dawn’s first light;
When a tomb was found empty of it’s slain.

In this garden of trial you waged war on death;
Until the sorrow and gladness of what was to come was made known.

The aroma of suffering was lingering on your breath;
As you swallowed the bitter sting of wrath reluctantly shown.

“Not thy will, but your will be done” you proclaimed in a fervent cry.
The kind of weeping whimper that is hummed on the lips of those to die.

The Cross will always gleam bright as a symbol of a debt you paid for me;
However it was a dark lonely night that this decision was won in a place called Gethsemane.

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