Lent

Gethsemane, quiet place of prayer
Out of the city walls;
Flowers closed in the dark,
Just tears when they
Come for You, Lord.
And blood drops between the rocks.

Too late for that call.
The traitor came
And the soldiers got You.
No more flowers grew in Gethsemane:
It is all dried up,
The beds s tenderly laid to bloom
Died. The gardeners couldn’t bear to come
And took their work elsewhere.