Poem March 26, 1977 Issue

GARDEN NIGHT

Stephen Gottschalk

Depth unto depth at that hour.
Outside the garden
the stars still whisper of cosmic things,
all unaware that they are being tossed
and juggled like toys.

The leaves rustle,
unsure of that final night's rumblings.
See, he arises,
The angry hour upon him;
his will, quite dumb now, has sped
into the garden rocks, where it will
gather silence and be still.
Strength is now the angel of his gloom.
Ah, see, he comes forth—
this is the first, the night's resurrection.
He comes forth,
and, Lord, what sorrows are lifted at thy
rising!

Stephen Gottschalk

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