Gethsemane

by Julia McMullen

Jesus in Gethsemane Garden, S.G. Rudl, fresco, late 19th Century

GETHSEMANE

Ancient, gnarled olive trees

bore witness in the garden.

Moonlight peered through leafy 

branches, kissed your dappled 

garments as your hands pressed 

together in prayer.

There, in the dark of Gethsemane,

blood and sweat fell from 

your brow, holy water on the ground—

the soil took it, and it seeped

beneath the surface. Roots 

drank deep of salt and sorrow;

when all was spent, and you were led

away, the trees held tightly to their stores.

When harvest came, 

we plucked the olives, 

crushed the tender green, 

pressed them thrice with wood 

weighed down by heavy stones, 

and oil flowed like blood.

JULIA MCMULLEN

Julia McMullen is a poet living in Nebraska with her husband and two young children. Her work has most recently appeared in Calla Press, Clayjar Review, and Solum Press. You can connect with her at juliamcmullen.substack.com.