• Dara Kountz

Darkness In Gethsemane

The wind slips through the night shrouded olive leaves, humming lullabies to the sleeping and solace to the weary. He knows this changing melody, intimately. He and His Father wrote the music for the breeze before there was earth to support the trees. He has heard the final notes that will serenade the fall of this world to fire. He always was and He always will be.

Yet, tonight, the beauty of His creations gives no comfort, no pride as He kneels abandoned by those chosen for His work, who swore their never dying love and loyalty so recently.

He told them tonight was His final night. He warned them that all they have suffered and given up to travel these three years with Him is nothing compared to what comes for them beginning tomorrow.

Tomorrow. His eyes boil in hot tears, their tracks intermingle with shuddering sweat. Tomorrow it ends and begins.

He will suffer as none have or will so that those He loves can have joy, can be safe and protected.

He knows what will come, has known it for eons prior to the birth of the moon mirroring sunlight down on the dull morbid trees.

The branches are cloaked, hidden among leaves darkened into miniature shrouds in the moonlight. The roots are buried in shadows so like the people He loves more than any of His other creations.

They are waiting for the sunlight and don’t even know it. They slumber, unaware of their state, separated from their source of nourishment not by the tangible but by its lack. The trees don’t know they will die if the sun never comes back. His beloved children don’t know they are dead until the Son goes back.

To get back though, He must take all that shadow from them. Darkness so deep and thick, it will surround Him and bury Him until He is lost even to the all seeing gaze of His Father.

Fingers clench into fists until fragile bones grind, a small appetizer of the feast of agony to come. Fear shakes every muscle, squeezing tighter until a cry terrible in its wordlessness overrides the ignorant rustles on the night air.

His heart hammers out His deepest fear. He doesn’t want this pain, doesn’t want to be so choked in the world’s darkness that His Father will turn away for the first and only time. He doesn’t want to face it, to suffer as none other has or will and He begs, “Father, if there is any other way…anything…”

The trees cloaked in blackness sway on, unaware of the His struggle, unaware of any peril, just like His sleeping disciples, just like all of His Father’s children, dead and dying.

He must give up everything. That is the price of Life. There is no other way but through the abandoned abyss. But, on the other side, the morning Son will rise and burn away the shadows.

Shaking hands steady. Taut muscles loosen. “The price will be paid, Father. Those We love will be redeemed.”

picture from wikimedia commons https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Winter_Tree_and_Dark_Night_Sky_Fireworks_like_Supernova.jpg

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