Thoughts, Prayers & Art

Originally Published: April 18, 2025

It was already night when Judas left.
The air was thick with knowing—
knowing that love had been twisted into betrayal, that silver had bought silence,
that death was already en route.

And Jesus felt it all.
The weight.
The fracture.
The sting of goodbye from a friend’s lips.

He didn’t run. He didn’t shout. He didn’t hide.
Instead, He walked out into the night—
into the cold,
into the garden,
into the place where flesh would tremble and soul would wrestle.

“Abba… if it be Your will… take this cup from me…”

Can we even begin to grasp the holy heartbreak in that plea?
The sheer humanness of it—
the raw vulnerability of a God who knew terror?

He knew what was coming.
He knew the shape of the whip.
He knew the crack of the nails.
He knew the sound of mocking and the bitter taste of abandonment.

And still…
He stayed.

He asked His friends to stay awake with Him—
not to fix anything, not to shield Him,
but simply to be there.

And they couldn’t.
Sleep took them.
And so He prayed alone.

The dew clung to His skin.
The night clung to His spirit.
Even the stars felt distant.

And yet—
when footsteps approached,
when swords glinted in torchlight,
when the kiss of betrayal came close—
He didn’t flinch.

He stood.
He opened His hands.
He gave Himself.

For us.

This is the love that stays.
This is the love that knows the price,
and pays it anyway.

He stayed—
when it was cold, when it was lonely,
when His heart ached beyond what words could hold.

He stayed, not because He had no choice,
but because we were His choice.

Love does that.
It waits in the dark.
It bears the silence.
It keeps watch even when no one else does.

And maybe today, in whatever garden of sorrow or silence we find ourselves in,
it’s enough to know:
He stayed.

And still does.