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.
by Annette Von Droste-Hulshoff (1797-1848)