I’m currently on my annual retreat at a monastery, right on the buckle of the Bourbon Belt in central Kentucky. There are acres upon acres of woods to hike through and I came upon a stirring pair of sculptures depicting the final moments of Jesus’ despair in the Garden of Gethsemane as three of his disciples slept. 

Something compelled me to sit and contemplate the weight of the moment it depicted. And in an out-of-character nudge of creativity (for poetry, any way), the following verse is the result…