A POEM FOR MAUNDY THURSDAY

GETHSEMANE

I gaze across the ages to

a garden of the past,

where shadows of Gethsemane                                                        

their spectral spell now cast,

and through the window of my soul

into the darkness stare,

until the starry sky reveals

the ghostly figures there.

As fantasy takes form and shape

the scene becomes more clear.

It is the Master's face I see,

and those of others near.

I watch him kneeling, deep in prayer,

close by three sleeping friends.

How could they all forsake the one

on whom their life depends?

His sweat appears like drops of blood---

the Passion has begun!

"Remove this bitter cup," he prays;

"but let thy will be done."

I hear one call him "Master," then

betray him with a kiss.

Did ever friend betray a friend

in such a way as this?

Another who has called him "Lord,"

and boldly said "I can!"

Will soon deny him with a curse:

"I do not know the man!"

I look with shame upon the twelve;

they fail to meet the test.

I know that I for one would not

forsake him like the rest.

 

No traitor nor betrayer I,

nor one who'd flee his call.

Could I but speak, could they but hear,

I'd castigate them all!

Within the olive shadows yet

one face remains obscure.

I strain to catch a closer look.

It must be John, for sure.

But he whom Jesus loves the most

is running fast away!

Not even John (if it be John)

is brave enough to stay.

To verify my guess I hold

my dream-made lantern high,

and phantom flame on feeling form

reveals that it is I!

(from Now, That's a Miracle!)