Gethsemane’s Agony: A meditation poem for Holy Thursday Night

 Gethsemane’s Agony

Once again, a garden; 

where silence settles slowly like dust,

falling over the ancient olive branches 

twisted in terror at 

what their knotted faces had to watch;

so becoming old witnesses, rooted in righteousness, 

while mere men slept against their sides unheeding. 

Grasses, mob trampled moments ago, begin to rise

stretching towards sky in supplication 

for celestial comforters;

or, broken stemmed, lie down in the 

wake of wildness now passed, 

prostrate in prayer.

The old rock is stunned into a stillness 

it may never recover from;

feeling bloody sweat running over its surface yet, 

it yearns for ancient days of volcanic years to 

mould itself into a vessel for love’s libation,

but hears instead the drip

of crimson dew upon the ground,

as Mother Earth receives her secret 

holy communion too,

shuddering as, at its taste, eden memory stirs 

in her long wildered garden soul.

The after glare of torches, shouts and swords 

fades into the city below while

Moon rises gently, 

bestowing her kiss of reparation 

on this place

with softest light.

Slowly, in silent reverence,

angels and animals appear 

and sit together 

beneath the

blessed branches,

a sundered union sealed,

as witnesses

of the Garden’s 

holy agony.