Your flesh was weak like ours, tempted and pressed:
“If you are willing, take this cup from me,”
you pleaded in that garden, so distressed
your body bled from mental agony.
But, willing to be crushed, you passed the test
that all of us have failed beneath that tree:
you trusted God, obedient to death,
left good and evil to God’s sovereignty.
You let him press our sins into your story—
the priests and Judas, Pilate and the crowd—
all grasping for our fleeting crowns of glory,
but God anointed you above the clouds.
We praise ambition, but the world was won
with this: “Yet not my will, but yours be done.”