The garden was quiet, the night so still,
and a moon sailed the roiling clouds as he
topped that hill awaiting betrayal.
Heart pounding, skull ready to burst,
Jesus left his sleeping friends, slumped
to earth preparing for the worst.
Saw the treachery of his treasurer who
stole from the purses, rejected his miracles,
quit his kingdom to pursue riches.
Felt the blows of a flagrum, its stone bits
ripping his flesh; forty strikes of the whip
made three wounds for each lash.
Felt hammered spikes gutting his wrists,
the searing pain in his joints, sneering
crowds reviling, despising him.
Only silence and darkness met his distress;
Christ sweated blood, shivered in the gloom,
thirsty, abandoned, wanting an exit.
Summoning courage, wounded to the heart,
gathering loyalty to his Father, Jesus clung
to this rock: Abba, not my will but thine.
first published in AllPoetry.com
©2014 Bonnie Manion