Gethsemane

These drops…

these drippings-down
from wax of woeful hours
which trace in viscous tears a mask
that stiffens near the Fahrenheit of death
are meltings of a mannequin
compared with beads of blood
which seeped that night from You.

The waxy substance of myself
exudes a sweat: opaque, devoid.

But on Your brow
through broken bark of flesh
an ancient olive sap
with fragrance sharp as primal life
bleeds down across the face of God
and hardens not beneath Death’s chill.

"Garden of Gethsemane" by Julie Potts

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