Poetry

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What are you doing here in the garden, Lord?
It is so dark and cold and lonely.
You could be back in the city,
Bringing joy to those who seek you.

You are doing it for them? But they are sleeping, Lord.
They don't even know what you're going through, or why.
Besides that, before the evening is over,
They will all deny they even know You.

What are you doing here in the garden, Lord?
The burden is so heavy, the sin so awful
And they are so ungrateful.
You could go back to heaven and leave man to bear his own sins.

You are doing it for me?
But I am sinful and Oh so evil down inside, Lord.
I don't even comprehend what you went through for one such as I.
Besides, I have denied you many times, by the way I live.

What are you doing here in the garden, Lord?
The price is so high, the response so uncertain,
I am so unworthy.
You could be on the throne of Your Glory.

You are doing it for me?
But I don't begin to understand a love so deep and so divine, Lord.
Besides, you have so little to gain, other than the total devotion of those Who see what it was like, here in the garden.

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