And everything, O Lord, begins
in gardens in their olive peace
where earthen vessels, suff’ring cups,
pour out their blood and sweat and tears
for what can any vessel be
but what it is and what’s inside —
for both make its quididity —
and be poured out upon the ground.
“Oh let this cup you offer pass.”
Yes everything, O Lord, begins
in gardens where the tramp of feet
and fires break the sleeping night,
where silv’ry swords are pulled in haste
to strike despite a cleansing rite:
incomp’rable. But healing reigns.
Humility is bound and led
to be condemned by priestly hands.
“Shall I not drink my Father’s cup?”
Here everything, O Lord, begins
on courtyard stones in startled night
where people gather, intimate,
and whisper ’round the fires there
in pockets formed of earthly light
while Light itself is struck for truth
and mankind seeks but to condemn
those seeking warmth before cock crow.
“One man should die that Man may live.”
And everything, O Lord, begins
on Roman stones all roads approach
where Truth, incomp’rable, is tossed
and questioned by the Law while one
Barabbas, sinner, gains his life.
The Life is mocked in purple robes
and beaten, scourged, (O healing stripes),
his features marred, condemned to die.
“And I am like a broken dish.”
Now everything, O Lord, begins
on Roman roads, unconq’rable,
with wooden beams that cross the back,
with angry stones and wounded knees
and women pouring out their tears
like earthen vessels, feminine,
t’anoint the face they cannot reach,
the dusty feet, the rough cut cross.
“It’s our infirmities he bore.”
At Golgotha, as noon begins,
his clothes are stripped, his naked form
exposed to shame. Our Servant Lord
his hands are pierced and bound to boards.
Then, lifted high, they lift him wine
from earthen jugs to quench his thirst,
the wine which tells his kingdom come.
And bowing down his breath’s released.
“Oh Father it is finished...”
Oh naked Christ exalted now
and emptied out upon the cross,
your beauty is so far beyond
what we would deem as beautiful.
Incomp’rable, your face is more
than we can bear. It startles hearts.
And pierced by spear your blood pours out
with water from your wounded side
to bathe your feet and dusty earth.
“Oh Pilate, let me lift him down.”
And now the cross is quitted: bare;
its wood blood-stained and left behind.
Now like a vessel, earthen, dry
your body’s chrismed in fine myrrh.
It’s linen wrapped and soon entombed:
its Sabbath rest ’mid garden stones.
And everything, O Lord begins
in gardens in their olive peace.
Return to Poems
Return to Wind Off the Hilltop