We watched Him as He worked
Day after day
Calling and drawing life
From thick, miry clay
It wasn’t uncommon to find Him
With sleeves rolled all the way up
Elbow deep in fresh, dark soil
Or burying seeds in old, cracked cups
He sang aloud as He worked
In the heat and in the rain
Even finding in the weeding
A hope worth any prickling pain
When to plant and when to prune
He knew with total confidence
Looking, listening, and then just moving
Seeing, receiving beyond “common sense”
How could we not look with reverence
Upon every tree and outstretched limb
When we now understand most truly
Why they meant so much to Him
These days, we know that all along
Our dear Magdalene was right
It was indeed the voice of the Gardener
Heard through tears at dawn’s first light
Madison, CFR Postulant