In the Garden

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These hands lovingly fashioned the universe, and knit together first man and first woman. Hands that rejoiced in the light of first day now trace the edges of an impenetrable darkness.

God incarnate, Son of Man, on his knees. Terrified. Alone. Through tears the ground is a blur. All is silent, closing in as if the universe were about to fold in on itself, implode. Creation holds it’s breath, for the redemption of all that has been made resides in the hands of the one who kneels in the garden. Heart beats resound like the slapping of a drum. Trembling hands outstretched to the beloved Father. Despairing of the tortuous path that lay ahead that long black night. Somewhere in an unknown place a Father weeps for his Son.

Your will be done.

Hands that lovingly created life now wait for death. It is the only way. For in the shadow of the cross divine hands take hold of yours and mine.

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