The Cup

This is an attempt at poetry which I used to come to terms with a particularly difficult trial in my life.

It sat there on my table,
A simple cup, half-filled with bitter, blood red wine.
He stood there, behind it,
Beckoning me to drink.

Knowing how hard it would be I shrank,
Not daring to meet those love filled eyes
Nor see the marked hands and wrists
Which he held out inviting…

Then I saw that night:
That awful, glorious, night
in Gethsemane,
Where He drank His cup, brim full and flowing over:
I saw the red, dripping from Him to the ground
As He fell to His knees in agony, groaning…
for me.

I heard that soft burning Voice,
so filled with kindness and grace,
That said in a love filled whisper
“To be like Him, you must follow Him
As He drank His, so you must yours.”

So I stood there, and with trembling hands
I lifted that cup, that heavy cup,
to my lips
And drank.
For a lifetime it seemed, it burned
And drove me to my knees begging for a release.

I could not think, only feel
And as I dwelt on me, it became my world
Till I saw another…
When I saw their pain,
mine helped me more clearly see
how they hurt
And as I sought to lift them,
Their joy filled me.

As intense was my pain,
In equal measure I felt their joy
And in becoming my own
My pain was swept away

In its passing,
my weakness and pride
were washed away.
And oh what light, what joyous light did fill my soul!
With darkness dispelled and life renewed
I looked again into His face, and He smiled at me.

And the Voice said, “As He is, so art thou… well done.”

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