"Can you not watch and wait with me a little while?"
He stands in the shadow filled garden, holding out an unscarred hand. He does not ask me to take His cup and win the war for Him, nor does He ask me for the strength for fight it or that I change the nature of the battle. He asks me to watch with Him, to wait in the darkness before He goes and fights for me.
I do not want Him to walk a little ways away, and come back to find me sleeping, too fatigued by the effort it costs to stay and watch. Instead, I want to walk with Him, to a darker place. I want to clasp arms with Him, around the blood-spattered rock of suffering, and wait with Him there. I want to listen, as He intercedes for me, as the weight of my sorrows settle on His shoulders. I want to look into His eyes, and see my helplessness reflected in the tears that He cries for me, and I want to see my weakness swallowed up in His all sufficiency. I want to weep with Him, in this darkened garden, and know the fellowship of His suffering, so that in a little while, when He bears my scars for me, when the dying is done, and the sun has risen, I will know Him.
Will not the breaking of bread in the sunshine be all the sweeter from the breaking of our hearts, together in the darkness? I will look across the table of plenty, and know by comparison the blinding glory of His light all the clearer. When I see His hands and side, wounded and scarred from fighting my battles, I will remember the strength of their clasp over that bloodied rock of sorrow, and I will know Him.
He asks me to tarry here, in this place of suffering, that I might know Him. The morning is coming, and already, He bears the scars that foretell of the victory won. "... That I may know Him and the power of His Resurrection," I will wait.