Let this sorrow depart from me.

Here is a poem that sits with you in that sacred, painful space of asking for the cup to pass, drawing from the deepest well of understanding.

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This Cup

This cup You give—I feel its bitter weight, The dark and heavy dregs of fear and fate. I taste its gall upon my trembling lip, And feel my failing courage start to slip.

Is there no other way? No other path? Must I now drink this cup of holy wrath? This sorrow,this ache, this lonely, crushing cost… Can it—please,Father—can it yet be passed?

"Take this cup from me," my spirit pleads, As in the garden,among the oil and seeds, A greater Prayer than mine first spoke the pain, And asked for sun,but welcomed heaven's rain.

Yet in the asking, comes the truer cry, The breath that echoes under the same sky: "Yet not my will, but Yours be done," I sigh, And lift the chalice to the God most high.

I do not drink it alone, this portion of grief, You are with me here,my sure and strong relief. You drank the darkest vintage,once for all, To catch me every time I fear I fall.

So take this cup… or walk with me as I do, Transfigure its sorrow,make it somehow new. For I trust the Hand that holds it out to me, More than I trust the eyes that cannot see.

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The Scripture at the Heart:

This poem rests entirely on the agony and surrender of Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane, as recorded in Luke 22:42:

"Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me; yet not my will, but yours be done."

This moment is the most profound example of raw, honest prayer meeting ultimate trust. It gives us permission to:

1. Ask honestly for our suffering to be removed.

2. Surrender completely to the wisdom and will of a loving Father.

It is a prayer that holds both our deepest fear and our highest faith in tension, and it is a prayer that God hears with infinite compassion because His own Son prayed it first.