Gethsemane
With gentleness, I move ahead—
Not numb, but open wide to grace;
For even when all comforts fled,
My Lord knelt, praying in my place.
A gentle soul, He chose to stand
In faithful silence, through the night—
He bore the nails with open hands,
And rose in love, not rage nor might.
As I now suffer, He once knew
The weight of pain the flesh must hold;
In every wound, His mercy grew,
In every cry, His strength made bold.
I recall Gethsemane—
Not force, but grace bore all the weight.
Where sorrow hung upon the Tree,
Love poured through heaven’s open gate.
Where angels tread and comforts fled,
I, too, might pause, and kneel, and pray—
Upon that ground, where tears were shed,
I watch for the light to break the day.
Would you unfold this sacred thread?
Or close the book with what is said?
WoPoLi 
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