gethsemane

Nostalgia opens slowly,
like a flower.
Its fragrance stirs the senses
to search for the sower.
The flower bends low to the ground,
listening for a hint- a sound
locked inside its source,
where someone put down roots before.

Precious Savior, little child
in a lowly manger laid.
You blossomed a man-
roots trailing down from heaven.
When you returned to your high home,
did you ever feel that human pull
to kiss the ground where you once walked?
To love that world which loved you not?

In the same way my heart returns
to its old home-
loves that lonesome place
where it was born.
Lord, when I wake up in your mansion
may I, blooming, bow down in the garden?
Stretch myself once more to see
my own, my old Gethsemane?