The night was cool as Jesus led His disciples down the streets of Jerusalem, past the sleeping homes and closed market stalls, toward the Mount of Olives. When they arrived at Gethsemane, a garden filled with gnarled olive trees whose roots delved deep into the sacred soil, Jesus seemed to stagger under an unseen weight.

"Sit here while I go over there and pray," He instructed His disciples. Taking Peter, James, and John with Him, He moved further into the darkened grove, His face twisted with anguish.

"My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death," He confided in them. "Stay here and keep watch."

The three disciples exchanged worried glances as Jesus moved away from them, alone, plunging into the deeper darkness of the garden. There, amidst ancient trees that had stood silent witness to countless prayers and secrets, He fell to His knees.

Tears and sweat mingled on His face as He prayed, the words tearing themselves from His lips. "Father, if it is possible let this cup pass from me, yet not as I will, but as you will."

His voice, usually so steady and full of authority, wavered. The divine mission that had propelled Him for three years seemed to crash over Him like a wave, leaving Him gasping for relief that would not come. The weight of the world's sin—every act of malice, every whispered lie, every hidden transgression—pressed down upon Him like a physical burden.

After what felt like an eternity, Jesus returned to His disciples and found them asleep. Anguish turned to disappointment.

"Could you men not keep watch with me for one hour?" He said, looking particularly at Peter. His earlier bravado now seemed like a distant memory.

Peter’s eyes flicked open, stinging with shame and fatigue. "Sorry, Lord. We will stay awake, we promise."

Yet, when Jesus returned from praying a second and then a third time, each time grappling with His Father’s will, His closest friends remained unable to fend off sleep. A deep sense of isolation closed in on Him. The only sounds were the rustling leaves and His own soft sobs carried away by the night wind.

Finally, footsteps approached—the soft padding of sandals against soil, the clinking of metal, and hushed voices. Jesus stood, waking His disciples.

"Look, the hour is near. The Son of Man is betrayed into the hands of sinners," He said, His voice strengthened with renewed power.

Out from the shadowy olive grove emerged a band of Temple guards, and with them, Judas. With a calculated casualness, Judas stepped forward and kissed Jesus on the cheek, a sign of betrayal wrapped in the coat of friendship.

"Do what you came for," Jesus said to Judas, looking into his eyes one final time. Judas flinched as if slapped. The gaze he met was not one of anger, but of pity and sorrow. Deep in his soul, Judas cried to be unborn.

With a nod from Judas, the guards moved forward, seizing Jesus. Peter, ever impulsive, drew his sword and struck, severing the ear of a servant of the High Priest.

"Put your sword back in its place," Jesus commanded, touching the man’s ear and healing it instantly. "Do you think I cannot call on my Father to send legions of angels?"

The disciples watched, paralyzed with shock and fear, as Jesus was led away, bound and beaten as he was led into the fateful events that awaited Him. His capture seemed to defy belief, like the world turned upside down.

Peter looked at James, and then at John—the brave fishermen of Galilee who had once dropped their nets to follow a carpenter’s son. Their eyes met in a mutual, unspoken anguish.

As Jesus disappeared into the darkness, swallowed up by the treachery of the night, His disciples scattered, each one a whirlwind of confusion, guilt, and despair. The night, once a tranquil backdrop for their Rabbi's prayers, now hung over them like a shadow of defeat.