In the quiet of the olive grove,
Beneath a moon’s soft silver veil,
He knelt upon the dew-kissed earth,
His heart a chalice, filled with frailty.

His hands, scarred from carpenter’s toil,
Now clasped in fervent supplication,
The weight of all humanity upon his shoulders,
A cosmic plea echoing through time.

The stars above bore witness,
Their ancient eyes aglow with wonder,
As Jesus, son of man and God,
Poured out his soul in whispered words.

“Abba,” he breathed, the sacred name,
A bridge between the finite and infinite,
His tears like pearls upon the ground,
Anointing roots that reached for heaven.

He prayed for strength to bear the cup,
Its bitter dregs of suffering and sacrifice,
For grace to walk the path ordained,
To drink the darkness and emerge as light.

The night embraced him, cradled his pain,
And in that sacred silence, he communed,
Not with thunderous voices or lightning bolts,
But with the stillness of eternity.

His prayer, a thread connecting heaven and earth,
Wove through the fabric of existence,
Binding brokenness to redemption,
And birthing hope in the shadowed garden.

So let us, too, kneel in quiet reverence,
Our hearts are aflame with longing and surrender,
And join the timeless chorus of souls,
As we seek communion with the Divine.