Sunday, February 5, 2017

Surely he hath born our griefs.

What was it like when Jesus was in the Garden of Gethsemane?

Maybe it was like when you squeeze your eyes shut hard and you can see colors. In some kind of time dilation where ages and ages pass in a single minute, the colors must have burst and fought each other in rapid succession across the black backdrop.

Rage that makes your whole body tense, scorching red diagonal lines. Electric purple fear that ripples out from the epicenter, paralyzing you. 
Deep blue sadness that cascades from head to foot. 
A moment of shimmering gossamer white peace. 
A growing black cancer of shame that eats its way out of the corner. Blinding yellow confusion in great dots that blur the whole view.
Blistering orange ecstasy that flares up in a sheet from bottom to top.
Cold grey scratches of betrayal across the whole field of view.
Cool strokes of periwinkle love from left to right and right to left.
Raw pink exhaustion as wide as eternity.

His body must have been racked with hideous spasms as he languished in a heap, just letting this unending blast of emotions take him over.

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