He saw me first.
I saw a garden hand
With grass-pressed tunic,
Soil on toes,
Eyes at ease with a job well done.
He saw my tears yet didn’t flinch—
No garden hand had ever asked me
About that water swelling
In stormy cataracts on cheeks.
They’d taken my Love—He’s
Broken, stabbed, now stolen.
My love is gone, is gone, and
I would wail and run
Five thousand furlongs if only this garden man
Confides to me the hiding place that
Holds my love, my broken love.
He said my name, my truest word:
Mary, once bitter, now sweet.
He was a garden man, but
More—the one I’d lost. I knew
Him by that voice and by
Those eyes, new, knowing.
They caught the morning light and
Calmed my own frantic, swollen ones.
Where had He been? What ablutions
Rinsed crusted blood and water from olive skin and linen?
What had He seen and how did this morning’s Father
Turn toward yesterday’s forsaken Son?
What words had made my sad untrue?
Quiet mystery surrounded, hovered, haloed Him—this
Garden-loving, light-bearing frame of holed and holy clay.
He didn’t tell me where He’d been. (He never tells me everything.)
The rose-gold sky back-lit His frame.
6 thoughts on “After Saturday Night”
Such beautiful words!✝️
Breathtakingly Beautiful! Thank you!
Those are beautiful words! Thanks for sharing with us!
“I come to the garden alone…”
Just beautiful, Anita. All the layers of meaning in your words make my heart sing!
This is stunning!