Upon the western slope’s decline, among the aging olive trees,
light yellow mingles green divine, and hums upon the evening breeze.
The leaves lament in whispered song, their shadows fading as they pass;
the Old City dreams along, the day descends through tempered glass.
And while the stars begin to gleam with trembling, living fire,
three approach another’s dream, beneath the weight of dire desire.
Grieved in thought, in sombre tone, like branches bowed with inward pain,
the first one spoke, his voice alone — so gentle, yet so plain:
“My soul is sorrowed unto death; stay here awhile,” and having gone
a little further, fell to earth, and cried his prayer upon the stone:
“Let this cup pass away from me — yet not my will, Creator, thine;
behold my spirit’s agony — let thy will in me align.”
And sweat like blood fell to the ground, while others, dulled by sorrow’s spell,
sat heavy-eyed, in silence bound — for grief itself had cast the veil.
This was the vanity of vanities: as southern winds that circle, flee,
bearing loss through restless seas, and call the soul to memory.
For every deed beneath the sky has its appointed hour to be:
a time to heal, a time to die, a time to speak, and silently;
a time to gather, cast aside, a time for peace, and time for strife;
and soon — a time to be crucified, and time to burn, and time for life.
And lo, the hour now drew near — a crowd, with swords and fire’s glow,
their garments torn, their faces seared, pressed forward through the olive grove.
Before them came, with practiced aim, the one whose kiss betrayed his friend —
that treacherous token, false and famed, the messenger of the bitter end.
Thus, Judas marked the tale complete; his kiss engraved the deadliest thread —
and what came next, the years repeat: all vanity — the wheel has led.