Holy Thursday

 Prone in Gethsemene upon His face,

His eyelids closed, — lay Christ of all our world,

The winds with endless sorrows seemed enswirled;

A little fountain murmured of its pain

Reflecting the pale sickle of the moon;

Then was the hour when the Angel brought

From God’s high throne the Cup of bitter horn,

While on His hands tears trembling fell like rain.

Before the Christ a cross arose on high;

He saw His own young body hanging there

Mangled, distorted; knotted ropes half-tear

The sinews from their sockets; saw He nigh

The jagged nails’ hot rage, the direful Crown

Upon His head, and every dripping thorn

Red-laden, as in fury of its scorn

The thunder battered all kind voices down.

He heard the pattering drops, as from the cross

    A piteous sobbing whispered and grew still.

        Then Jesus sighed, and every pore did spill

A bloody sweat.

-From Gethsemene by Annette Von Droste-Hulshoff (1797-1848)

Today's Reflection

Take this poem into your prayer time meditation as you consider the great gift of our redemption. How is Jesus speaking to you in it?