The Agony Of Waiting
the agony in the garden of Gethsemane
the sweat turning to blood
Jesus asking for the will of God
this waiting has been dragging
judgment suspended, i am sleeping.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Agony
Ever wonder how He felt?
Praying in the garden
His students asleep
Could not watch for an hour
He knew He had to die
Even if it's just for me
He would be scourged
He would sweat blood
Even if it's just for me
Agony!
There He was, fixed
Nails in hands and feet
For a moment
Abandoned by God
Agony!
They pierced Him
Blood and water gushed
Mom at His feet
Brothers vanquished
Head bowed
Breathed His last
How He felt?
Think you have it hard?
Think about Him
Agony!
He was wrapped
Buried and left
Thought it was the end?
Not so fast!
Three days later
He got up
Just like that
Now He reigns victorious
Today knees bow
Eyes close
Agony?
poem by Buxton Shippy
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My Heart Is Ready
Be witness, good Gethsemane, great garden of My God,
Who fashioned this very body, its arteries and blood,
Who took the stars and made My eyes, put sunshine in My smiles
And now compels Me realise this world and Satan's wiles...
Be witness, good Gethsemane, great garden, day and night,
That I behold My Calvary, yet I must not take flight,
The coward's path has nought to gain, as faith bids Me to stay,
Till Judas sells My soul in vain before the end of day...
Be witness, good Gethsemane, great garden, truly blessed,
Where life still blossoms gracefully surviving every test,
For I am like the Tree of Life transplanted on a hill,
With fruits and flowers healing strife according to God's will.
Be witness, good Gethsemane, of Christ, the great I AM
And His triumphant tragedy, Good Shepherd and God's Lamb,
None other pleases Him to die, atoning for Man's sins,
Though Man himself cries, 'Crucify! ' and kills the Precious Prince...
Be witness, good Gethsemane, of life then death and more,
According to God's prophecy, appeasement to His Law,
One righteous act, one life, one soul, one duty to perform,
Till I have served this mortal role, My blood no longer warm...
Be witness, good Gethsemane, of all these truths to learn,
Yet mark My words, My destiny is that I must return,
For Death has feeble threads to hold the Holy Son of Man...
My heart is ready to unfold My Father's perfect plan...
poem by Denis Martindale
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Nothing But the Blood
What can wash away my sin?
Nothing but the blood of Jesus;
What can make me whole again?
Nothing but the blood of Jesus.
For my pardon this I see -
Nothing but the blood of Jesus;
For my cleansing, this my plea -
Nothing but the blood of Jesus.
Nothing can for sin atone -
Nothing but the blood of Jesus;
Naught of good that I have done -
Nothing but the blood of Jesus.
This is all my hope and peace -
Nothing but the blood of Jesus;
This is all my righteousness -
Nothing but the blood of Jesus.
CHORUS
Oh! precious is the flow
That makes me white as snow;
No other fount I know,
Nothing but the blood of Jesus.
poem by Robert Wadsworth Lowry
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Gethsemane
1914-18
The Garden called Gethsemane
In Picardy it was,
And there the people came to see
The English soldiers pass.
We used to pass -- we used to pass
Or halt, as it might be,
And ship our masks in case of gas
Beyond Gethsemane.
The Garden called Gethsemane,
It held a pretty lass,
But all the time she talked to me
I prayed my cup might pass.
The officer sat on the chair,
The men lay on the grass,
And all the time we halted there
I prayed my cup might pass.
It didn't pass -- it didn't pass --
It didn't pass from me.
I drank it when we met the gas
Beyond Gethsemane.
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Nothin But The Blood
Words & music:michael w. smith and chris harris
Woa-o-woa-oah-woa-o-woa-oah
Woa-o-woa-oah-woa-o-woa-oah
Woa-o-woa-oah-woa-o-woa-oah
Woa-o-woa-oah-woa-o-woa-oah
What can wash away my sins
(theres) nothing but the blood of jesus
What can make me whole again
Nothing but the blood of jesus
This is all my righteousness
Its nothing but the blood of jesus
This is all my hope and peace
Nothing but the blood of jesus
Nothing but the blood of jesus
Nothing but the blood of jesus
Nothing but the blood of jesus
Nothing but the blood of jesus
song performed by by Michael W. Smith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Garden
A Garden contemplation suits,
And may instruction yield,
Sweeter than all the flow'rs and fruits
With which the spot is filled.
Eden was Adam's dwelling place,
While blest with innocence;
But sin o'erwhelmed him with disgrace,
And drove the rebel thence.
Oft as the garden-walk we tread,
We should bemoan his fall;
The trespass of our legal head
In ruin plunged us all.
The garden of Gethsemane,
The second Adam saw,
Oppressed with woe, to set us free
From the avenging law.
How stupid we, who can forget,
With gardens in our sight,
His agonies and bloody sweat,
In that tremendous night.
His church as a fair garden stands,
Which walls of love enclose;
Each tree is planted by his hand,
And by his blessing grows.
Believing hearts are gardens too,
For grace has sown its seeds;
Where once, by nature, nothing grew
But thorns and worthless weeds.
Such themes to those who Jesus love,
May constant joys afford;
And make a barren desert prove
The garden of the Lord.
poem by John Newton
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The Olive
I have heard a friar say
That the Olive learned to pray
In Gethsemane,-
A holy man was he,
Jacopo by name,-
All upon his bended knees
From Jerusalem
He crossed Kedron brook
And to the garden came
Of Gethsemane,
And the very olive-trees
Are there to this day.
And I would have you know,
For I loved to hear him speak,
Good Friar Jacopo!-
That on an Easter-week,
In the time long ago
Of bloody Pilate 'King of Rome,'
Lord Jesus
To the garden-gate did come
Of Gethsemane.
And as He came at the dear look
O' the Lord a sudden shudder shook
The wood, and wooden moans and groans
Allowed the silence of the stones.
(The stones that next day, as 'tis said,
Oped their mouths and spake the dead.)
And when He bent His sacred knees
The shame of limbs that could not bend
Suppled every bough's end
To a lythe
And pliant wythe.
But ere He spake a-silent stood
Every tree in all the wood,
And the silence began to fill
Inly, as the ears with blood
When the outer world is still.
And when He spake at the first
'Let this cup' did somewhat swell
Every twig and tip asunder,
Like the silence in the head
When the veins are nigh to burst;
And at the second was nothing seer
To stir, but all the swollen green
Blackened as a cloud with thunder;
But in the final agony,
When His anguish brake its bands
And the bloody sweat down-fell,
At the third 'Let this cup'
As He lifted up His hands
Black drops fell from every tree
And all the forest lifted up.
The Lord went to Calvary-
Well, perhaps, for you and me,
Brother, who being men are fain
To profit by the blessed loss
That quivers overhead while we
At the foot of the cross-mast
With the hereditary face
Reckon up our selfish gain,
Rend his sacred weeds and cast
Lots for the vesture of His grace,-
Aye, at the dabbled foot of the Cross
While that dear blood doth flow.
The Olive cannot chaffer so,
Not being a man, altho'
Since the pallors of that hour
It hath kept a human power
And is not quite a tree;
Now and then
Round the unbelief of men
It lifts up praying hands,
Because it is so much a tree
And cannot tell its tale
Nor reach
To clear its knowledge into speech.
And whether on that awful day
In Gethsemane
There was wind,
Or whether because day and night
And day again all winds that blew
From the City on the height
Shuddered with the things they knew
I know not, but you shall find
An Almighty Memory-
That yearly grows and flowers and fruits
And strikes the blindness of its roots
And suckers forth, but howsoe'er
It blindly beat itself beyond
Its planted first can do no more
Than stretch the measure of its bond
And shape as it had shaped before
The arborous passion that can ne'er
Be paroled into shriving air-
Sicken in the leafy blood
And turn it deadly pale.
And as when a strong malady
Of tertian and quatertian pain,
Turning the cause whence it began
Into the woe of man,
By loops and conduits else too fine
For an incarnadine,
Hath shaken, shaken it from the body into space,
When life and health again co-reign,
And all youth's rosy cheer
Tunes every nerve and summers every vein,
Some crucial habit of the brain
Sudden repeats the unforgotten throe-
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
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Today... 'Abba
'Abba, Father', Jesus said, 'Take this cup from me'
whilst praying in the garden of Gethsemane.
'I know that all things are possible for You
and that there is nothing that You cannot do.'
'Yet not what I will but what You will, ' He said
as in deep anguish great drops of blood He bled.
Then He went on to complete salvations plan
agreed by the Godhead before time began.
'Abba, Father, ' like Jesus we too can cry
as we pour out our soul to the Lord on high.
For the sons and daughters of our God are we
and never more in slavery shall we be.
The Spirit of Christ is dwelling in our heart
and causes all the fear and dread to depart.
For our Lord Jesus drained the bitter cup dry
when He bowed His head upon the cross to die.
Abba Father, the Spirit has testified
that I am the child for whom He has died.
An heir of God and co-heir with Jesus Christ
sharing in His suffering and sacrifice.
No more an orphan for the Father I know
I'm in His family where life's riches flow.
Led by the Spirit I gaze into His face
as God's love floods into my soul by His grace.
We are sons and daughters of the living God
and we walk the same pathway that Jesus trod.
All saved by His grace and purchased with His blood
and trusting in the promises of our God.
(see also the additional information in the Poet's notes box)
Jesus Was An Only Son
Jesus was an only son
As he walked up Calvary Hill
His mother Mary walking beside him
In the path where his blood spilled
Jesus was an only son
In the hills of Nazareth
As he lay reading the Psalms of David
At his mother's feet
A mother prays, "Sleep tight, my child, sleep well
For I'll be at your side
That no shadow, no darkness, no tolling bell,
Shall pierce your dreams this night"
In the garden at Gethsemane
He prayed for the life he'd never live,
He beseeched his Heavenly Father to remove
The cup of death from his lips
Now there's a loss that can never be replaced,
A destination that can never be reached
A light you'll never find in another's face,
A sea whose distance cannot be breached
Well Jesus kissed his mother's hands
Whispered, "Mother, still your tears,
For remember the soul of the universe
Willed a world and it appeared
song performed by by Bruce Springsteen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sweet Water
In the Garden of Gethsemane
was Jesus on the cross
hanging from the olive tree
when the cross was cut down
it drove so deep into the desert sand
the spring of life
was released from the ground
and God found.
poem by Vince Gullaci
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I Am Ascending To My Father
I have fallen upon my knees heavily; God cast
me down, before entering this holy sacred spot;
the Garden of Gethsemane, in the Kidron valley;
among those ancient olive trees I pondered
upon my pilgrimage way, their twisted arms their
gnarled trunks, witnessed Jesus pass this way;
blood my Lord sweated here in fear in agony
his prayers to heaven, to his father were carried;
but the bitter cup he bore, could be not removed.
I have walked upon the sacred Via Dolorosa
where Christ carried our bloody cross, chastised
first, by his whipped tortured stripes, we are healed. 1 Peter 2: 24.
I have walked upon the Hill of Calvary Golgotha
where the New Testament describes Jesus, crucified
entered, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, venerated.
Here once many women viewed the crucifixion
from a distance, here by the Cross, three Marys’ stood
Christ’s mother, her sister Mary and Mary Magdalene. John 19: 25.
Here the sepulchre the Church of the Resurrection
acclaimed to be the site, of the resurrection, of Jesus
here while weeping, Mary Magdalene, stooped forward
looked into the memorial tomb and she viewed
two angels in white sitting one at the head
and one at the feet where the body of Jesus had
been lying. And the angels said to her: “Woman,
why are you weeping? ” She said to the angels:
“They have taken my Lord away, and I do not know
where they have taken him.” After saying these things,
she turned and viewed Jesus standing, ....
Jesus said to her: “Stop clinging to me. For I have not yet
ascended to the Father. But be on your way to my brothers
and say to them, ‘I am ascending to my Father and YOUR
Father and to my God and Your God.’ ” Christ had risen. John 20: 11-18.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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I Fell Upon My Knees, At Garden Gethsemane
My God asked me this question, when God was feeling sad,
“My children who I love dearly, why, are they perpetually so bad? ”
“I ceased from all my labour, in sympathy, what more could I do? ”
And to my God I said, “My God, I will spend this morn with you.”
I remembered all those enemies, who hate, screamed and yelled at you,
how their eyes boiled with inner hate; how it vomited; spewed over you;
I thought of their envy greed, their secret slimy, covetous things they do,
to God I spoke; “My God my heart breaks within me, let me cry for you.”
My tears fell like rain, upon the ground, a second great flood wept anew;
oceans heaved with storms unabated; in tempests God’s pain surged anew;
we remembered wicked, drowning children, God’s deep sorrow then I knew;
I saw sickening sin so vile, evil these children did, reason for flood I knew;
My eyes bled tears of blood, in fear of all suffering, Jesus bore for you;
my body sweat tears of blood, I fell upon my knees, at Garden Gethsemane;
all creation’s pile vile sin, Christ willingly took, died horrific death for you;
covenant blood poured out for many, forgiveness of sins, crucified for you.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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The Blood Of Jesus
Every minute, every hour,
The blood of Jesus is the power,
It's the power over sickness and disease,
It's the power that sets you free.
The blood of Jesus will turn your life around,
In your daily life peace will abound,
It will set you free from anxiety,
Through Jesus' blood you will have a victory.
Plead the blood of Jesus without delay,
Pour the blood over bad circumstances today,
Try the blood of Jesus and you will see,
The blood of Jesus means victory.
poem by Elizabeth Skerencak
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Jerusalem, Jerusalem How Glad
Jerusalem, Jerusalem how glad
am I in prayer to have stood;
in thee blessed city at remains
of thy second temple’s walls.
Jerusalem, Jerusalem Oh how glad
am I sacred Via Dolorosa walked;
in remembrance atonement passed
stations of The Cross to have passed.
Jerusalem, Jerusalem Oh how glad
am I who before entering sacred;
Garden of Gethsemane to view aged
olive trees was cast down humbled.
For Jesus in agony fear here sweated
blood in prayer to heaven to father God;
when last among these olives he stood
thus rejoice all bowed before our Lord.
In pilgrimage to Calvary where our Lord
for my sins humanities Christ was Crucified;
where a group of witnesses Marys stood
bewailing in heart soul worship as we should.
This most Holy City Jerusalem City of our God
site of our Saviour’s Cross where our Saviour trod;
Almighty God this is thy most sacred Holy City still
at Messiah’s return here raise holy men at thy will.
The Via Dolorosa (Latin for Way of Grief or Way of Suffering) is the sacred two part street, within the Old City of Jerusalem; where Jesus walked carrying the cross, on the way to his crucifixion.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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White Republican Male Jesus?
White Republican Male Jesus?
what about...
black Jesus, brown Jesus,
Asian Jesus, atheist Jesus,
female Jesus, poor Jesus,
jobless Jesus, prison Jesus,
homeless Jesus, illegal immigrant Jesus?
dog Jesus, cat Jesus,
baby in a dumpster Jesus,
addict Jesus, old Jesus?
gay Jesus, union Jesus,
hungry Jesus, foreign Jesus?
bumming a cup of coffee Jesus?
brother Jesus, sister Jesus?
just bombed Jesus,
food stamp Jesus?
how many bodies? how many crosses?
you tell me!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Burning Ashes
Of tears and the sweat in the day of agony,
A virtuous woman is not easy to come by;
Like our legs to war without a clue.
What was that all about?
Of an immunity but not impunity,
Of an impresssive but not impassive,
Like two from a country to uncover where the gods spew fire!
Of their mysteries,
One from a tribe;
Who? Why? What? Where? When? Whom? Whose?
To name the country of this child like,
Our tears and sweat in the day of agony;
Like the clouds of burning ashes.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Nature Trail
At the bottom of my garden
There's a hedgehog and a frog
And a lot of creepy-crawlies
Living underneath a log,
There's a baby daddy long legs
And an easy-going snail
And a family of woodlice,
All are on my nature trail.
There are caterpillars waiting
For their time to come to fly,
There are worms turning the earth over
As ladybirds fly by,
Birds will visit, cats will visit
But they always chose their time
And I've even seen a fox visit
This wild garden of mine.
Squirrels come to nick my nuts
And busy bees come buzzing
And when the night time comes
Sometimes some dragonflies come humming,
My garden mice are very shy
And I've seen bats that growl
And in my garden I have seen
A very wise old owl.
My garden is a lively place
There's always something happening,
There's this constant search for food
And then there's all that flowering,
When you have a garden
You will never be alone
And I believe we all deserve
A garden of our own.
poem by Benjamin Zephaniah
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Holocaust the Apathy
blood reaches to the gate of hell, alongside with
innocent flesh sways into the open gate of heaven
wounded seems fragile yet! hopeless to come
close of sacred doorstep of eternal life
sweat pour out the ground of loud cried,
shouting with silent prayer; a wish that comes what
may, gently await the coming last days of judgment
the bucket seems to full of empty flower, while
lighted candle surround the corner of vessel cool of
moist bonded to hold close in the cup of
final judgment remain in the altar
down in the aisle I’ll go and gone brightly the
condolence I receive, where is the blood
I bring...
poem by Antonio Liao
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Red Letters
Red letters
Cut deep
Soothe the pain inside.
Red letters
Bold and loud
Scream silently.
Red letters
Secret and hidden
But a cry for help.
Red letters -
A way to deal with this pain.
As I cut these words into my skin
I remember seeing red words somewhere before
Then it hits me like a lightning bolt -
Words of Jesus are printed in red. Words of Christ in red.
Red letters
Real truth, piercing deep
Soothes my pain inside.
Red letters
Your passion, Your blood
Covers me.
Red letters
Hope and life
I cry, 'Fill me! '
Red letters -
You were pierced and bloody
So I wouldn't have to be.
'What can wash away my sin?
Nothing but the blood of Jesus!
What can make me whole again?
Nothing but the blood of Jesus!
Oh! precious is the flow that makes me white as snow!
No other fount I know -
Nothing but the blood of Jesus! '
Red letters... Nothing but the blood -
Red letters... Nothing but the blood of Jesus!
poem by Zoe MacRae
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Big Wheels
Ive been thinking it over
So many times they say
You got it made
They never understand
The answer lies within your soul
cos no one know which side
The coin will fall.
Big wheels turning
Baby I know
Big wheels turning
Baby I know
Big wheels turning, turning...
Save it for a rainy day
For when the cold wind blows
Just to see how they run
I thought theyd know
I tried my best, all I could do
But somehow it was not enough for you.
Big wheels turning
Baby I know
Big wheels turning
Baby I know
Big wheels turning, turning,
Turning, turning...
Chorus:
I remember the dead of night
A lonely light that shines upon the window
I see it all so clear
The tenderness, the silent tears
Out here in the pouring rain
Through cold dark waiting days
I see you standing there
I see the big wheels turning
Never ending, on and on they go.
I think Im going home
I think Im gonna have to start again
Its rather sad
Because Ive looked around, cant seem to find
Whatevers always rolling through my mind
Big wheels turning
Baby I know
Big wheels turning
Baby I know
Big wheels turning, turning
Turning, turning...
Repeat chorus
song performed by by Electric Light Orchestra
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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