From Gethsemene

                        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 —

                                    Annette Von Droste-Hulshoff  (1797-1848) 

For Reflection:

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?


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