He could have gone to the garden
Just for soul searching agony,
He could have left,
Closing the gate firmly behind him.
Instead, His knees imprinted rock
Olive trees rustled their future plans
Blood sweat watered white lilies
And in the depths of His soul
He heard them, He smelled them
Smiling, He planted the assurance
Of future gardens,
And sits by an open gate.
Asking us to enter.