Standing in the hot sun,
plucking the dark, plump
blackberries from the canes
and dreaming of the treats
I might create with the fruit,
I carelessly turn
and catch my bare arm on the thorns.
I call out in pain
and pull a thorn from my skin.
I watch the blood
gush out in a bright, red drop.
Didn’t he tell me
to wear long sleeves
while picking berries, as
he dug the heirloom canes
from the ground
for me to transplant
into my garden?
I rarely listened to him
when I was young,
and now that I am
not so young
I still fail to listen
to the sound of his memory
in my mind.
But now, my thoughts wander back
to a garden long ago,
a garden rich and lush
with berries in abundance.
There he stood;
my father,
long sleeves regardless
of the heat,
picking those berries
day in
day out,
until the canes were picked clean,
and gently carrying his
purple treasures to the kitchen
where they would be quickly eaten.
But another man
didn’t enjoy sweet berries
after enduring the pain of thorns.
He wore those thorns tightly
wrapped against his head
with no one to pull them out
when he cried in pain,
and only a stranger,
a lovely, gentle woman,
who offered her veil
to dry his blood.
He carried those thorns with him
to his death
and was only offered
the bitter taste of gall
to quench his deep thirst;
a taste He refused
as the taste of our sin
that filled his mouth
was bitter enough for Him.
Oh sweet Jesus,
how I wish you could know
the flavor of fresh summer-picked
blackberries.
And how I wish I would refrain
from complaining when the thorns
grab hold of my skin.
I want so much to be brave and strong
like You,
to wear my crown of thorns
without complaint.
For I know that when I do
you will be holding out my reward,
a treasure sweeter than any berry,
a life of eternal joy with you
in your heavenly garden.
