The soft moonlight shone down with a diffuse glow upon a small band of singing men, its watery white-silver glow guiding them along their way through the garden. They had just left the upper room of a house in which they celebrated the Passover meal, and now they were singing the closing psalms of praise. It was well into the evening.
A man among them, however, hung back. Be bore a pained expression on his face, and he walked almost as if in a trance. The group was his most trusted friends, and at his request, they were walking toward a garden at the foot of the Mount of Olives that the men knew well as "Gethsemane." When they had passed the garden's stone wall, the singing of the man's followers died on their lips when he stopped, and they noticed his anxiety and tension. They were startled; they only knew unflinching calm from their master.
However, he only whispered to them, "Sit here, while I go over there and pray." His voice came in a rasp, and his followers became suddenly frightened - for him and themselves. Somberly, the man motioned for three men to follow him further into the olive garden: a man named Peter and the two sons of Zebedee. They trekked a ways up the hill, and as they continued, the man's agony only increased. His three most trusted friends, his chosen band, were quite silent; they knew not what he experienced nor why.
Through the wild fear in his heart, images ran through the man's mind. The distant warning figures of crucified criminals off the roads of Jerusalem, crows pecking viciously at their eyes, the flesh rotting as it clung to their bare bones… The man choked out to the three, "My soul is very sorrowful, even to death..." He stumbled and caught himself with the branch of a tree. "Remain here, and watch with me." His three friends watched in frightened wonder as their beloved master limped a little ways off, about a stone's throw away. The man's eyes were unfocused, and his face twisted with torment. A great pain ached in his soul. Every so often, the man would groan in his suffering; they had a raw quality, the realness of a person consumed by a pain that knew no end. Then he would go silent, simply breathing through his trembling body, his eyes frozen and witnessing some unseen horror. He turned toward prayer and his Father.
"Abba, Father, Daddy: for you all things are possible; remove this cup from me; yet, not what I want, but what you want," he breathed. Gone was the day of transfiguration on Mount Tabor, and it was almost as if the man's divinity were hidden in that moment. Trembling, he stood. His hands shook as he reached out for support and grasped the thin trunk of a growing sapling. After long moments of agonized prayer, the man slowly limped back to his tree companions, blindly avoiding what was in his way. He returned and found them resting against a tall tree and sleeping soundly. This happened again a second time.
"So, could you not watch with me for one hour?" he asked sorrowfully. They bolted upright in groggy surprise. "Watch and pray that you may not enter into temptation. The spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak," the man keened. He silently stumbled away yet again, leaving his three followers looking at each other with fear and confusion. Their master was out of sight, and indeed, the man had collapsed again farther off. Breathing heavily, he suddenly threw his head back, looking at the misted moon with wild eyes. However, only a whisper escaped his lips. Again he pleaded, "My Father, if this cannot pass unless I drink it, your will be done."
The trees rustled, carrying the cold wind through their leaves as the man continued to murmur prayers and clench his fists, rocking back and forth as waves of pain flowed over him. Thick rivulets of blood ran slowly down his face, marking it with crimson beads. At length, they dropped into the grass that the prostrate man was clinging to, staining it with a glassy sheen in the light of the pale moon. Memories of what were, what was, and what would come to pass ran swiftly in his mind, and he knew them all; each sin he saw of each man at each time. The weight was unbearable, and he bared his teeth in agony as his eyes shut tightly. His divinity's pain far exceeded his humanity's, just as a man's suffering transcends a beast's. The things that he saw were far more horrible and lethal than the death that terrified him.
The blood from his sweat dripped into his eyes, and they stung as his vision blurred. He saw the lies, blasphemies, slanders, adulteries, schisms, apostasies, broken vows, and murders thrust upon him as if he had committed each one himself; he placed a hand to his mouth as he bent over and wept. His mind raced as the deadly proposition was presented to his humanity. He could stay and die the most harrowing death, or he could slip away quietly. Through the blood, sweat, and tears, the man made the decision that he knew he would have made all along. The wind stopped. His tears stopped. The world stopped. It was time.
At length, the man rose and, perhaps in need of comfort, perhaps in need of seeing them awake and praying, he laboriously toiled toward his three companions once more, knowing that his hour drew near. He stumbled back, bloody sweat still dripping on his brow. Upon seeing his friends' closed eyes and sleeping forms, he fell to his knees and held his head in his hands.
"Are you still sleeping and taking your rest? It is enough!" he cried. Immediately, his friends scrambled to their feet, and they cried out in alarm when they caught sight of their dearest friend drenched in blood and breathing heavily. But the man only looked to the dark sky above. Even as he spoke, the man could hear them: the irregular, heavy tramp of the soldiers, the uneven treading of the temple authorities, and the light footsteps of a traitor leading them all. The man put a hand to his cheek. He could already feel the blistering kiss upon it. Thus he rose and sorrowfully spoke with grief to his companions.
"The hour has come. The Son of Man is betrayed into the hands of sinners. Rise, let us be going; see, my betrayer is at hand."