by Lynn Michael Martin
“Tarry here,” he said, “and watch with me.”
I peered through darkness, past the olive trees
but saw no shadows on Gethsemane.
“Teacher, what is this thing that I might see?”
I asked him, and his voice came, by degrees,
through darkness— “Tarry here and watch with me.”
He went a little farther off from me;
I knelt alone, but still I heard his pleas—
I watched for shadows on Gethsemane.
For hours I watched, till tree had merged with tree;
I sank to sleep, and so heard not the breeze
or Jesus calling— “Tarry here with me.”
I woke and saw him, and he pled with me—
the tortured brow, his face and muscles seized—
I saw the shadows on Gethsemane.
While horrors fell upon him silently,
white wings descended through that bitter siege;
for angels heard his outcry— “Stay with me”—
and filled the shadows on Gethsemane.
Lynn Michael Martin is slowly learning that he is not the center of the world.
Photography by Kenneth Godoy