The night was still… so very silent… ominous for that matter. It seemed at first, or rather smelled, the similar essence of any evening in Spring. The air had about it that perfumed scent of the garden, the trees and the flowers, now so awake and alive by the sun’s departure hours earlier. Night ruled the sky, with only freckles of silver to keep the sun, once so majestic and powerful, now in check. The birds had fled the garden and only the little insects scampered about, singing their song in harmony. This was the harmony of the darkness, as even the moon, newborn like a baby, dared not to intercede. Yes, the night was truly still.
He knelt beside a bed of desert flowers, their colors hidden from the night, with only their fragrance to keep him company. His few, those that were always so close by his side throughout the energy of daylight, they too were nowhere to be found. Perhaps they stood guard over him, or at least dreamt they did . Yes, he was alone within this ‘ dark as an abyss’ garden, and that alone stirred his soul. He was now but mortal again. That flash of energy, cosmic power, knowledge and insight, had barely moments ago bid him farewell. The Man and The Christ were no longer fused together, as they had been for years. He recalled, as he felt the hardness of the ground push against his knees, the emptiness he had just experienced. It seemed to be the loss of his better half, his ‘ Center of light’, his Higher Self. Yet, he knew he wanted to accept the truth his teachers had taught him. He still was a ‘ Son of the father’ who sent him. He was still linked to that eternal Creator, the one he himself had spoken about to the masses, his ‘ Little Fish’ .
Where was that quiet confidence, that serenity he had experienced hours earlier when he washed their feet, then broke the bread and held up the cup of wine? No, now he was but a Man, a mere mortal, full of the fear and anxiety that he had seen in so many other eyes as they looked into his for comfort and reassurance. Had he not moments ago uttered those words ” Father, if this cup could pass quickly?” Was that really coming from his lips, he, the Master, the Rabboni that so many had sought out? How could this be? How could he have fallen so low, so quickly? Where was the insight, the divine wisdom speaking through him to once again raise him up to the hierarchy of the universe? What had he just told Peter, his Rock, a few hours earlier: ” Before the cock crows you will have denied me thrice.” And now, was not he, their teacher, their Christ, denying his own prophecy by this reflection of mortal fear and confusion? The Christ had just left him, deserted him in the night, this night! The link to the Father and the Heavens had bid him farewell in this very garden with not a witness to such action. Why? Why? He could not comprehend why he was pushed aside, forced alone to face the trials so soon to appear. He knew that much! He knew what being the Lamb truly meant…. and it was He, not Peter of John, or James, or any of them, that was the Lamb. The sacrificial lamb, awaiting the wolves of the night.
He fell to the ground, his face hitting hard against the coldness of so insensitive a thought. He felt the pain of flesh being pounded, and he again had that terrible vision, like the one in so many of his dreams…or nightmares. The picture of the utter horror of nails piercing his warm and tender flesh. The blood now ran from his eyes as the salt water washed against his long, perfumed hair. He sobbed! For seemingly an eternity he just lay there, face to the ground, sobbing! If only they knew , if only they knew, if only they could see him now…
The night was still. The trees and bushes wavered not. The stars sent forth such little light upon the garden. Not a bird was to be heard singing this evening. He stood up, inhaling the sweet fruits from the flowers, mixed with the blood sweat from his face. With his hair, his long and beautiful hair, he wiped his face and brow as dry as could be. He turned to see if the few had yet awakened to see him through this past few moments. They had not. He closed his eyes in silent meditation. Soon the peace of the garden returned to his consciousness. He inhaled again, slowly and with control. He pondered a short while, opening his eyes as he exhaled, slowly and powerfully. Good, he thought. The Man was ready to fulfill the prophecy. The Lamb awaited the Wolves with silent dignity.
Philip A Farruggio is a contributing editor for The Greanville Post. He is also frequently posted on Global Research, Nation of Change, World News Trust and Off Guardian sites. He is the son and grandson of Brooklyn NYC longshoremen and a graduate of Brooklyn College, class of 1974. Since the 2000 election debacle Philip has written over 300 columns on the Military Industrial Empire and other facets of life in an upside down America. He is also host of the ‘ It’s the Empire… Stupid ‘ radio show, co produced by Chuck Gregory. Philip can be reached at [email protected].
Originally written 1987
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