He will be broken.

Tonight, He wonders and cries, “Must this be so Father?”

To leave this dusty world, these faces filled

with trust, is beyond Him now.

“I love them all Father,” as he thinks of each friend and their follies, their frailties dearer

to Him than their strengths: stubborn, proud, envious, but His people.

To leave His friends,

His mother’s love-filled face

sets fire to His skin.


And tomorrow, trial,

tomorrow a consummation.

To feel the stinging hatred,

the loss,

the singularity.

He will be broken.

“Tomorrow, I die, and I will see

the tide of human sorrow

war, rape, murder,

all of this death.

I grieve for human history.

This is the disappointment of the ages.

I grieve for Mary, Peter, John.

I grieve for Judas, Abba.  He knows not what he does!”

Jesus weeps.

Tomorrow, He confronts Empire,

structured chaos.


“Father, remove this cup from me,” He asks, arms outstretched, gaze lifted at the night.

A bird hovers near, fluttering wings, and Christ sighs.

It is to be.  It must be borne.


“Not what I want but what you want,” he cries out.

In this end, is the Genesis.

He rises from the garden.

He is breaking.