Gethsemane

                Gethsemane


Through an ancient garden patch, tested by frost and fires,
down a well worn pathway, near choked by mustard and briars.
I come here alone in evenings quiet, when solitude I desire.
here I find the refreshment, my bruised, aching soul requires.

In a garden, much  like this one, I’ve heard Jesus would come to pray,
to renew his strength for the coming storm, for guidance along the way.
In a garden of Olives alone and betrayed, Herods soldiers led him away,
But the strength he had found in the garden, kept him throughout that long day.

Gnarled trees of Laurel and Dogwood, by winds here are tattered and tossed,
They bloom still, and blossom from spring to spring, their beauty, both lovely and lost.
They go on with living, year in, year out, though hidden, they count not the cost.
Each spring they dig deeper, their tough old roots made stronger by winters frost.

Still alive, still vital, deep rooted and strong,
they support the nest of the thrush.
They audience the Mourning Doves lonely song,
At twilights golden hush.

Can I but find the strength to go on, when life has battered my head,
when friends forsake me, surrounded by foes, my strength and courage fled.
Can I find the drive to sink my roots deep, and weather the storms ahead,
will I bloom and blossom, though nobody sees, or wither away in my bed.

Beside an old kitchen garden, redolent of sage and thyme,
the smells making music together, like a poem or well loved rhyme.
Down the antique garden path I walk, and into the deeps of time,
there I find the hopes and dreams, I thought I’d left behind.