Old Town
Walking in the garden we are taking stock of all that you have left behind.
Everything you touched now seems to vibrate with the presence of your earthly soul.
Walking in the garden there is nothing we can even lay a finger on.
Looking up we see your ghost above us sitting on the courtyard wall.
Resurrection, come!
Resurrection.
Living in the garden you had never seemed to find the balance of your grace.
Living in a still place never seemed to have quieted your restless heart.
The silence of the garden seemed to magnify an elusive, forbidden task.
Thinking back on what you used to always say “You must finish what you start.”
Resurrection, come!
Resurrection.
Come!
Come!
Dying in the garden your blood glistening and drying in the winter sun.
In the absence of an anchor we are left alone, frightened, shaken and weak.
Dying in the garden, you are now more than ever a tragic enigma.
Despite this horrible deed you still have not found the answer that you seek.
Resurrection, come!
Resurrection.
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