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Crucifixion CupThe cup loomed before My eyes. Bitter gall filled it, heart-wrenching sorrow poured into it. Father, I had taken the cup in My hands and willed it to be mine. Oh, that for one hour they that stayed with Me in the garden of Gethsemane could have cupped My face in theirs. Their sin had become as a stone upon My heart, the sins of all the world had been laid upon my back. Nails gleamed at My distress. Spikes teased My quivering flesh. Lashes bared My skin to the bone. Father, forgive them as I have; for they did not know the cost of what they purposed to do nor could they have kept Me from drinking My portion of Your crucifixion cup. Poetry Ad-Free Upgrades Vote for this poem
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