Who looking would have expected hope to be born
that night of agonizing prayer under the olives,
sweat like blood falling in the spring moon light,
and a will that said not mine but yours.
Hope seemed to flee
when asking for the the price of a cheap slave
one of his own offered to make fellowship's kiss
turn into a betrayal,
backed by guards and swords and hate.
Did His followers hope against hope
that morning during an unjust trial,
where He stood, whipped and bloody,
a sacrifice of one for the many,
while a cynical judge gave Him up to prevent a riot
and a bad report back home.
Did any know that hope, while He in the grip of torture,
gave His back to the scourge,
His hands to the nails,
His body to the scorn,
hung high for all who came into the city to see,
He who gave up all, a perfect sacrifice,
as the temple veil was torn.
Hope glimmered in fear and amazement, though
as women crept out at dawn
to find a rolled-away stone
an empty tomb,
a discarded shroud,
a rolled-up napkin,
a missing body.
Hope spilled into concrete reality
as a weeping woman looked up
at the person who spoke her name.
coming down from Heaven,
the unexpected gift
to an undeserving world.
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