The desert is hot and humid. The sun beats down on a lone tree. It’s arms reaching out as though seeking the moisture that kisses its leaves.
The heat is oppressing but the dew from the night still lingers. The strong gnarled trunk stands majestically holding up the arms of time.
Beneath the shade of the old tree at an old rock kneels a Man. His head bowed and drops of sweat drip down His cheeks. His silent prayer becomes agonizing as His sweat turns to blood and drips down forever staining the rock.
“Take this cup” His anguished voice pleads.
Men that He has called friends slouch a few yards away, asleep. They hear not the anguished cry of their friend, the Man they called friend.
Tears stream, blood red sweat pours as the Man kneels with His head hanging low. “Not My will but Thine,” He finally whispers as His friends snore.
After some time He slowly, painfully, rises. He walks toward His friends and sees they are sound asleep. He stands silently looking down at them.
Slowly the closed eyes of His friends begin to open and they look up at the Man and make no apology as they rub their calloused hands across their eyes and beards.
“So you could not watch with Me an hour?”* The Man states.
His friends say nothing.
The Man waits a moment.
The Man finally turns and walks slowly away leaving his friends, slouched and yawning.