Olive Tree

He leaned upon

The ancient Olive tree

Its thousand years

Of waiting at an end

The Hour had come

For Him to fall prostrated

In a pool of perspired blood

The Father’s flood of silence

This alone the witness

The Olive tree and me.

A couple of thousand

Years again I prayed

Beneath the shade

Of that same tree

And there I learned

That it’s not for us

To know the joy of Rising yet

Not even death’s respite

It’s ours to hold

The cup that does not pass

The chalice that holds us

In His sacrifice

Until the Hour has come

For its consumption