Lord Jesus,
You stood in the garden beneath ancient trees,
with the weight of the world pressing into Your soul.
You felt sorrow deeper than I will ever know,
anguish that made You sweat blood,
grief that made You cry out to the Father.
And still. You surrendered.
"Not My will, but Yours be done."
O Savior, how often my prayers are filled with rescue,
but not surrender.
How often I long for escape
when You invite me into obedience.
You stayed awake while Your disciples slept
and I see myself in them.
Too tired to watch.
Too distracted to pray.
Too weak to stand with You in the trial.
Forgive me, Lord.
For my sleepiness in the spiritual battle,
for the times I said, “Even if I have to die with You, I never will deny You,” only to turn around and run when the pressure rose.
You were betrayed with a kiss
by someone who walked with You, dined with You,
saw Your miracles and still sold You for silver.
And I confess, Lord
there are times I’ve traded Your nearness for comfort,
Your voice for approval,
Your truth for convenience.
You were arrested like a criminal,
though You are the King of all kings.
You told Peter to put away the sword
You did not resist the will of the Father.
You submitted not because You were weak,
but because You were willing.
How many times have I fought what You are trying to accomplish through surrender?
Make me brave enough to trust You,
even when surrender looks like defeat.
You were falsely accused before the high priest.
Lied about. Spit on. Struck.
And still, You remained silent
until the moment came to proclaim who You are.
You said it clearly
"You will see the Son of Man seated at the right hand of Power,
and coming on the clouds of heaven."
Even in trial, You bore witness.
Give me courage, Jesus
to speak truth when it costs,
to stand for You when silence would be safer,
to identify with You when the world walks away.
Peter denied You three times,
just as You said he would.
And then the rooster crowed.
O Lord, how often I’ve heard that rooster
the moment of awakening after failure.
The bitter weeping of regret.
Yet You forgave him. You restored him.
So I ask You restore me too.
Don’t let my failure be my end.
Let it be my turning point.
You were the Passover Lamb,
eating the Last Supper with Your friends,
knowing full well the betrayal and abandonment to come.
And still You gave thanks.
Still You broke the bread.
Still You poured the cup.
Still You washed their feet.
Teach me that kind of love.
A love that doesn’t grow cold in betrayal,
a love that serves even when it aches,
a love that endures beyond the cross.
You let Yourself be bound
so I could be free.
You endured silence from heaven
so I could have access to the Father.
You walked into the darkest night
so I could walk in the light of resurrection.
So here I am, Lord
trembling in my own Gethsemane,
bringing You my fears, my doubts, my weakness, my weariness.
But even in this,
I whisper as You did
"Not my will, but Yours be done."
Keep me awake, Jesus.
Keep me faithful.
Let me follow You,
even when it leads to a cross
because beyond that cross is glory,
and beyond the silence is resurrection.
In Your mighty, devoted, and suffering name
Jesus, my Savior, my King, my Lamb.
Amen.