The Bridegroom Amy MacDonald
April 1, 2002
He shook each fig off history's tree Into a basket spilling out Over the temple's upper room. The lavish incense made us drowsy With ourselves. We feasted long In the supper tent, while one by one He whispered us away with him To the pomegranate orchard. Our garden tales recessed to myth, But now are undone in the gaze of one Whose gate exists to open out At every point. Our lover calls, You are the one I love. His words are a rose rattled shut; An inner dark velvet waits to be exposed Until most have slumbered home.
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