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The Agony
When moonlight shone on olive boughs he came
and every stone found then it could not speak.
No more could thorn or brier plants untamed
deny him then that solitude to seek.
'Twas three alone disturbed him there that night
by sleeping when the hour was almost come
(though one would strike a guardsman deaf in fight,
and later on himself be stricken dumb.)
As man he had the choice to take the cup
or else, rejecting God, to harbor sin,
but he alone of men gave himself up.
Too soon the crowd arrived to take him in!
Weep now for Christ who in this garden knelt,
and share with him the agony he felt.
This is the first of a series of sonnet reflections on the Sorrowful Mysteries of the Holy Rosary. Although I started them some time ago while in grad school, I thought this would be an appropriate time and place to finish them up and share them. Although they are intended to be a set, I will be posting the rest of the poems around noon each day this week, finishing on Good Friday. Thank you for reading; I hope that they offer some food for spiritual thought. Happy Holy Week!
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