Behold the incarnate God bowed in grief!

(Octavius Winslow)

Accompany Him to the garden.

Behold the incarnate God bowed in grief; His
impurpled brow pressed to the cold, damp sod;
the cup of trembling in His hands; and the cry
of anguish, O how piercing, yet how submissive,
bursting from His quivering lips, "My Father, if
it be possible, let this cup pass from Me!"

Follow Him to Calvary, staggering and swooning
beneath the instrument of His torture. Behold
the legions of hell let loose upon His holy soul,
'bruising the heel of the woman's seed.' Listen
to the insulting taunts of the priests as they
swagger beneath the cross. The sun is clothed
in sackcloth; the earth trembles upon its axis;
the granite rocks are rent asunder; and amid the
darkness, convulsion, and earthquake of the globe,
a cry is heard; louder and more agonizing than all,
"My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?"




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