Imagine a Garden (Maundy Thursday 2)

Imagine a garden. Is it what you thought it would be

when the sun was stolen and the son knelt down

amidst the discarded leaves and unsprung life.

Your eyes close but not in prayer,

you stare into the void of night

and sight dims with fatigue.

You clasped your hands, the same hands

that had grasped the cup of wine

just hours before; they still tremble.

Your voice raises no cry to heaven

instead the melody of sleep permeates the air

as the heir to the kingdom searches God.

Take this cup, this suffering, this night and tomorrow

if only you will, but still your will not mine be done,

on earth as it is in heaven.

Will you drink from this cup? (Maundy Thursday 1)

It’s ruby sweetness is tempting,

for a moment at least,

until you remember the depth of this cup.

One quick shot will not drain it

as it runs over not with delight,

but with the possibilities of pain.

He gave it, it was not a trick

and yet he had let slip that this cup

was not one to sip from lightly.

To drain it would cost everything,

and so with trembling hands you receive

but can you yet believe?

And did those feet? (Palm Sunday)

O.K. I’m not writing prolifically at the moment but I have done a few poems for Holy Week. I’ve been working with a church member who is an artist and photographer in church and her work got me writing. Starting with Palm Sunday:
what if those feet had walked here,
on these cobbled tracks.
what greeting would have welcomed him
in the market place and street.
as those above and those below
watched his steady journey
could we have considered what part we’d play
with branches from trees barely budding
And as he passed the bank machine
and people waited for money
would anything have changed
still a closed sign on the Nat West building.
An empty glass of beer watches from a window sill
as the king of kings passes by
and church doors close
for a private morning ceremony.
Are there shouts?
Is there rushing and excitement
or just another passing moment
no-one quite noticed?
And if those feet in modern times
had walked not upon the mountains
but down the streets of our town
would his steps pass silent?
and in this green and pleasant land
what would be built by human hand
that will not decay, pass away,
as he goes on, leaving our Palm Sunday.
And the crowds did not gather for him,
no one welcomed or adored him,
but the cobbles cried his name
shouted his praise for no one came.