I wrote this poem for a Trent Vineyard Maundy Thursday service in 2012

There are moments, in this moment,
When the horror subsides,
When the tiniest fragments of glory,
Like coloured glass in the noonday sun,
Catch the eye with their dazzling light.
And for the briefest of seconds an eternity of beauty is present.

He had one just now.
Through the tears and the sweat and the blood and the pain
The most delicate breeze whispered through the trees.
The Passover moon brushed away cloud
And bathed the garden in a divine half light (on this in-between night).
The sort of night when lovers might wander until dawn,
The weight of their tiredness made light by the sheer joy of Life.

The moment passes.
And there it is again before him. The Cup.
His spirit lurches violently as he sees the turmoil,
The swirling, eddying, agitated, bilious, ocean of darkness.
He sees a young child screaming in agony from a disease it never deserved,
A woman wailing in mourning for a husband lost to war,
A man raging at lost dignity as he is forced to beg for food,
An outcast wanting to die, so tired of feeling alone.

The weight of the suffering drags him to the ground.
He grabs at earth, this earth he made. Tighter and tighter to this earth,
His fingers and palms are aching with the intensity of it.
Stone bights into skin.
If only he could just let go. If only he could just let go.

And then it happens again.
Somewhere in the distance
The faintest snatch of a young child laughing.
A laugh of sheer abandonment to an adoring father. “Abba, abba”.
A laugh where nothing matters but this present moment,
A bubbling, babbling, arpeggio of joy, of safety, of being loved.

Oh Abba, Abba. Take this cup.

He is exhausted, can barely hold on.
His mind is restless.
Scattered thoughts and memories,
Crowd chaotically for his attention.
There is a mountain, a desert, a tempter, hunger, stones, bread, a tower,
All the kingdoms of the world and their splendour spread before him.
What if, what if, what if?

But no.

The Cup.

A couple argue about nothing and everything
Their marriage crumbling like a derelict building.

Take this cup.

A village huddles in terror as floods destroy their homes.

Take this cup.

A woman feeds an addiction at the price of her self respect.

Take this cup.

A man rots in prison for speaking truth to power.

If it is possible…
Let this cup pass!

And then. A moment.

A nightingale. The most beautiful birdsong pierces his agony.
Soaring, free, the purest of sounds,
Extravagantly exquisite,
Every note so delicate and tender, yet bursting with praise to its creator.
Heaven touches earth and it is then that he knows.

Father.

Father.

Father.

I will drink this cup.

May your will be done.