sometimes I think when Jesus knelt in the garden,
he was lookin’ for Eden but teared up when
Gethsemane was the best he could do,
and all round those ole bent-over olives,
crooked and deformed as they are,
and knowin’ he’d hang on one soon enough,
the trees of the field didn’t clap but
ached and moaned the way they do when
just the right wind comes howlin’ over that cruciform canopy,
and when I think of all that, and of Christ there
in such despair and hunkered over some stone,
his bone-dried hands clasped in angst, or prayer,
I think I could forgive him
had he just run off or said to hell with it
the way he probably should have,
the way it all went to hell anyhow,
and yet he kept the vigil as we slept,
for better or for worse, and I dunno which it is,
but it keeps me up now, wide-eyed and ready,
even though it didn’t then.

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