His mother, an oasis of life,

gave us the author, the king

who rode into that city

of death, riding only to bring

victory, his gift a trampling

death down by dying, finding

life given in unending loving,

despite that real renting

of fruit tasted and rejected,


soon …

earthly power dejected,

by windy palms rooted

deeply, finding water,

grown dates to sweeten

palates with sap’s wine -

all framing a pageant

of fronds from stately trees:

life, truth hidden, and lost

until the fruiting of the cross.

On the day of her dying,

Mary the mother was crying

-- to see her son,

to be in heaven,

and all at once, in that garden of tombs,

all trees bowed down and gave her a palm.

She – like a palm of the desert, pond
of life taken to Him in anastasis!


Return to Lenten Poetic Meditations


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