The rusted lock gave sighs of resistance,
Before the handle turned in my hand.
It’s squeaking door creaked open –
Just enough to let me in.
I felt a great reluctance,
A strong urge to turn around;
It had been years – nearly a lifetime
Since I stood here, on holy ground.
The garden had long been overgrown;
Many of the olive trees had died,
I searched but could not find
The place, where He had knelt and cried.
So I chose a shaded grassy spot –
Perhaps where His friends that night had dozed?
And explained, I was not here for me,
But as an envoy, for my soul.
“I am not here for magic bread,
Or for old parables of my youth,
But if you are the one,
They say you are –
My soul would like to know the simple truth.
It has also been betrayed like you!
And has had its share of pain!
It can still fight the enemies outside,
But needs your help from those within.
Also the time is near at hand,
Where I must leave behind my soul;
So it has asked me – to ask you,
For some light, to guide it home?”
Photo: William Blake ‘The Agony in the Garden’
© John Anthony Fingleton (Avril 2016) (Löst Viking)