Gethsemene

Garden grove of olive branches

And lemon trees swaying on evening breeze.

Toasted air and sun-warmed earth soft between the toes of new-washed feet.

Gentle drift of fresh wind cut with bitter taint of minty hyssop

With after-taste of wine and bread lingering drowsily on that sated band of faithful few.

A flutter of wings as startled dove takes flight,

Unnerved by unseen legions posted all around.

Feet washed, stomachs filled, minds drifting

Unalert to the angelic presence of defences standing by,

Unaware of whispered plans.

Deal made, silver exchanged, fate sealed,

Unknowing that even in the gentle evening peace

Brutality lurks

And deceit steals in unbidden.

Yet not my will, but yours, he says,

Fat round tears of blood running down his cheek and falling to leafy earth.

And so they slumber,

Dreaming of perhaps another garden

And another time.

A stirring in the undergrowth as, with answered prayer,

Heavy footsteps crash into that hallowed place.

And so betrayer claims his prize, resentment heavy in the air,

Fear-driven, boxed in, unwitting player in this cosmic drama.

Christ turns his cheek

And kiss of cold, ashamed identity parade

Leaves bitter trace of wine-soured breath

On the face of the almighty.

Yet not my will, but yours, he says.

Disciples leap — drowsy, confused

Adrenaline coursing through image-bearing veins.

Hand to hilt, sword drawn, glint of metal, iron tang of blood.

Something solid, something real.

Ancient patterns of violence and power —

We fight

We battle

We struggle

We dominate

This is how we survive.

Ear-splitting cry of agony resounds around the garden grove.

Excruciating stab of ill-considered primal response slices flesh from flesh

And sound ceases.

A moment of silence.

Then exculpatory touch that heals and seals,

Demands a fresh attention, understanding without question,

Demonstration of a truth as yet not proved.

Yet not my will, but yours, he says.

Soft touch of drifting breeze on cheeks,

Scented air with evening sweetness ripe,

Where scent of sun-warmed earth,

Of olive trees and lemon groves

And bitter taint of minty hyssop root

Belie the violence now unleashed

In this other garden.

A bruised reed yet unbroken,

Disarming the powers

With obedience

Gentleness

And love that heals.

Not my will, but yours, he says.