Rarely do I write religious poems, thinking myself unequal to the sacred task.  Today, however, during a contemplative moment, images of our Lord suffering in the Garden of Gethsemane, pushed upon my mind, through my fingertips, to form this poem.  I feel that I don’t know Jesus well, but I do believe that I understand something of his purpose for us, that is, to create us anew in his image, through his Atonement, into beings of light, goodness, kindness, empathy, understanding, generosity, forgiveness, and truth.  He whispers to us every moment of every day, helping us to change, oh so imperceptibly, incrementally, to become more like him.  His end is our eternal happiness.

IN THE GARDEN

drops of blood,
crimson, thick,
fall, to spatter
on the rocks,
the sand, the soil,
running on the exposed roots
of an ancient olive tree,
purple roots
in the darkness,
choked whispers and sobs
hovering
over