Already I can feel the weight on my back, the weight to which a cross is nothing. I must confront this beast, and fight it. I must have a moment alone. Come, where are words? I have converted crowds and I cannot say a sentence to my dearest companions? Peter, James, John... I am suffering.

"My soul is mortally grieved; stay here and keep watch with me. Pray."

Walk, walk... five paces is far enough to God. Here is a stone beside which I may kneel, and on which I may lean, and the moon shines here too (what a glorious thing light is!), and I must concentrate, must pray, must endure or the world is lost... I can feel, in the ever-present future which is the privilege of God, indeed I can feel a world saved. But will I be lost? Will this sin I accept, banish me from the Godhead? Am I really the one who is to be sacrificed? Perhaps this... this cup (for it is like vinegar wine) — perhaps it could be taken back until I am stronger, until I am certain not to fail. But only my Father can take it from me. I fall, I fall...

"My Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me; however, not as I but as You will."

And yet nothing. Sin drops on me like tainted rain, and soaks into my skin, and blurs my eyes, and fills the cup of suffering that I must soon drink. I turn, turn and stretch my neck and raise my eyes to the merciful stars, and look down again, to the earth, and look over to my disciples. Sprawled on the ground... sprawled on the ground, their faces empty and filling with starlight. Stand, walk... walk under the weight. Peter: a touch awakens him, he looks up at me, he knows he has failed.

"You could not watch with me for even so little time? Watch and pray, that you may not fall into temptation,
(where are these words coming from? I cannot think straight and yet I speak as well as ever!)
for the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak."

Walk back, stumble back, and here are the sins: murder, theft, adultery; anger, covetousness, lust (I can feel the pleasure of these sins, too, and I hate it); sacrilege and idolatry... can my God even hear me, is my Father deaf to my cries? The tainted rain streams down upon me, and the cup is filling. Words, words, words...

"My Father, if it cannot pass from me without my drinking it, may Your will be done."

Turn; here is heaven, here is hearth, here are stars, here is dust. Turn. The three are sleeping again. Walk over, a long five paces, wake Peter (he groans, and scarcely opens his eyes). Here a words again.

"Wake; watch and pray, that you may not fall into temptation, for the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak."

But they are ignorant, and they are tired; let them lie for the moment at least. Walk back, five paces or five miles, I no longer know, to the stone and the moonlit patch... I am so faint, and I cannot come to God, not as now I am. I need them. It is easier to go to men than to God. Turn, walk back, stumble back... I wake Peter less gently than before.

"The hour has come, the game's afoot, the Son of Man is betrayed into the hands of sinners.
(but what are the hands of sinners to the claws of sin?)
Arise, let us be going.
(who is there by torchlight, with an armed mob? such red hair he has, such bright eyes — my Judas)
 Look, my betrayer is at hand."

He is behind me; he places his hands on my shoulders and kisses me on the cheek, and then he pushes me to the ground, and there is humanity, sad, degraded humanity, all around, and the cup is brimming full.

A/N: This was written about five years ago, when I was in high school. I rediscovered it recently and was pleasantly surprised at how well it held up. What do you think?