Garden of Gethsemane

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I entered my garden of Gethsemane,

with the shroud of my womb

choking closely on my shoulders.

Weeping across my soul the red stain

flows into the vine now twisting into my

human flesh of pain and sorrow.

Mother of Mothers, whose loneliness

and desperation sheds the crust of my body

calling out for the new bread.

New bread for the generation left

from a Mother’s tears,

at Mary’s feet; the world weeps.

©    CMM   2009

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