A Garden in the Soul
On Holy Thursday, Love bends low in quiet light,
a basin, towel, open hands in night;
He kneels to wash our dust‑worn feet,
where humble service and heaven meet.
On Good Friday, under darkened sky,
Love hangs exposed, and dares to die;
we stand in shadows, pierced and torn,
and learn to trust through grief and scorn.
On Easter dawn, through stone and scar,
Love blooms wherever endings are;
each cross a tree, once rough and bare,
now budding mercy in the air.
So let us serve, and weep, and rise,
embrace the pain we cannot prize;
for every wound, in Christ made whole,
becomes a garden in the soul.
