Peter, James, and John were there.
It had been a long day, and it was night now.
Peter yawned, James rubbed his eyes, and John rested against an olive tree.
They fell asleep.
Jesus went off by himself, to pray.
Jesus went off by himself, to pray.
When Jesus knelt and wrestled with God, he was alone.
The Man of Sorrows was alone.
He felt the awful weight of the cup, filled with the gall of the world’s evil.
“Drink ye all of it”: the betrayal, the spit, the blows, the scourge, the lies, the mockery, the thorns, the mob, the thirst, the blood, the nails, the absence of God…
His hands trembled, his voice shook as he pleaded: “Take this cup from me…”
The Son of God wrestled with his Father.
His three disciples slept.
They were the closest of his friends.
They had been with him to the mountain top and had basked in his glory.
But this was the Mount of Olives, shrouded in the darkness of impending doom.
They did not share in the agony of his sorrow.
They slept.
Already forsaken, their Lord cried to the Father:
“O Father, take this cup from me…yet not my will, but yours be done.”
“Your will be done,” Jesus said, the hardest words he ever spoke.
Because he loved the Father.
Because he loved us.
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