What do I see, fallen, forlorn,
In a field of cattle and goats?
An apple tree in bloom. Cracked, Broken,
Cast on the ground before fruit could ripen.
Now goats tear twigs apart and black cows
Strangely gently pluck and eat white blossoms.
I begin to weep for a sadness I can't name.
What do they see, prone, bloody,
On a deadly hill, with soldiers and spears?
A Man on a tree, Nailed, Beaten,
Painfully raised upon a rough hewn trunk.
Now men cast lots for His few clothes,
while others stand in hate and jeer his distress.
In the dark of the day a shroud is torn.
What does she see, open, dark,
In a garden of trees and graves?
A tomb and angels on a stone, Smiling,
Waiting to ask of her, "Why do you weep?"
"He has been taken!" she cries out.
But one she thought to be a Gardener speaks her name.
"Mary." And she weeps for joy at the feet of her Risen Rabboni.
Now proclaim the Risen Christ, and make disciples
To the end of the age.
What will I see, Restored, Reknit
In a field of richest green?
That same apple tree, Remade, Glorious,
Bearing while blooming, with perfect fruit.
Beneath plentiful boughs rests a lamb,
Secure in the gently grasp of a lion's paws.
Then I will weep for joy and praise, and run further in
To the Garden City that awaits...