Eden Now

We were meant to be
Planted in a garden—
To walk with Him,
To breathe His Prescence daily,
To flourish with the tall trees,
To walk as them uprightly,
To dwell under the shade of their green arc
As holy as any temple could be.
To dance as their branches do in the breeze
To the sound of His beautiful name.
Then the first Exodus came,
And they became wanderers and we, their offspring,
Are wanderers still.

Now, I see what remains of the Garden, spread thin,
Gnarled trunks stiff against the harsh wind
and rain
as hard as our hearts to the wrecked world’s pain.
On the horizon, naked branches stretch up to heaven
As our arms and hands and fingers reach too.
Roots twist in the air uprooted—
Our faithlessness in His faithfulness—
And all is beaten and bruised and broken.
A withered world.
The remains of Eden.
A mirror foggy from our foul breath,
Waiting to reflect His glory again.

One day
One drop of the Savior’s blood,
Eternal-life infused,
Will drop onto the sallow, sickly fields, crusted earth,
And shallow hearts.
And like little waves,
Crests of new life will break
Across the sin-hardened state
And the Garden will be made well.