At the foot of an olive tree
In the garden of Gethsemane,
My son weeps.
He fears the hurt and the loss,
The Roman scourge, the bloody cross.
Yet his tears fall in sorrow, too:
When the Prince of Lies slithered into the First Garden,
He laced two hearts with greed and lust,
Turning forests into whores
And pastures into dust.
Satan didn’t dispense ignorance or hate:
He dispensed separation,
Then let it do its work.
He split hearts into ‘you’ and ‘me’, ‘yours’ and ‘mine’.
He made you forget you’re human and divine.
He tricked you from the path, led you astray;
And day by day
Step by step, you lost your way.
Even my son — in his agony — has forgotten.
Through his moonlit tears he seeks me in the heavens.
Of course, I am there, beyond the stars,
And in every twig that snaps beneath his feet.
This has been forgotten.
There is nowhere I am not.
There is nothing made that I have not made.
I am in all things.
I am in all.
I am All.