Prone in Gethsemene upon His face, His eyelids closed, — lay Christ of all our world, The winds with endless sorrows seemed enswirled; A little fountain murmured of its pain Reflecting the pale sickle of the moon; Then was the hour when the Angel brought From God’s high throne the Cup of bitter horn, While on His hands tears trembling fell like rain.
Before the Christ a cross arose on high; He saw His own young body hanging there Mangled, distorted; knotted ropes half-tear The sinews from their sockets; saw He nigh The jagged nails’ hot rage, the direful Crown Upon His head, and every dripping thorn Red-laden, as in fury of its scorn The thunder battered all kind voices down. He heard the pattering drops, as from the cross A piteous sobbing whispered and grew still. Then Jesus sighed, and every pore did spill A bloody sweat.
-From Gethsemene by Annette Von Droste-Hulshoff (1797-1848)
Take this poem into your prayer time meditation as you consider the great gift of our redemption. How is Jesus speaking to me in it?