After he begged his Father
to let the bitter cup
pass from Him, unemptied,
He saw the bloody wine, still.
He did not hear cup shatter
as He had hoped.
So, with a congruence of wills,
Jesus took it from Abbas hands
and drank down to the dregs.

And as he began to drink,
I was one of those sent
to arrest Him.
Just a slave, following orders,
just like everyone else,
when someone, maybe
a man called Peter,
a big, tough, fisherman, I think,
I could tell from the stink,
pulled his sword, swung it
and my ear was on the ground.
Then, this One my master called
a misbegotten blasphemer,
gently placed my ear
back on my head, healed.

So, I could hear Him when he
hung on that blasted cross, cry,
“Father, forgive them…”
and the cup He would rather
not have drained, was empty.

And I?

Now, with both my ears,
I hear His call,
for when He restored my ear,
He saved my soul.
I follow only His will now.
Whatever this, my new cup holds,
I pray, may it never be
passed from me.