Eden

We have never looked on Eden—
it was gone before we woke,
but we'd swear that we have seen it
in the words our fathers spoke,
in the kindness of our mothers,
in the bread we daily break
or receive from one another:
Eden, every bite we take.

There are days when we remember
that our lives are built on sand,
walking always in the desert,
looking for the promised land.
In the daily thirst of dying
we recall those living springs;
hunger speaks of satisfying:
Eden touches everything.

Though we can't go back to Eden,
still it flavors all we do;
with the savor of your kingdom
where we find our life in you,
for the seeds in Eden planted
blossom out into a feast.
From the harvest you have granted
we will finally sit and eat.

Les très riches heures du duc de Berry, Folio 25v, By Limbourg brothers – IRHT-CNRS/Gilles Kagan – Bibliothèque du château, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=108858

Counted

“For I tell you that this Scripture must be fulfilled in me,
namely, He was counted among the wicked;
and indeed what is written about me is coming to fulfillment.”
—Luke 22:14-23:56

We had Eden, but we lost it,
and our lives as leaves are flown.
Now a chasm—Lord, you crossed it—
lies between us and your throne.
You are counted with the fallen,
flesh of flesh and bone of bone.

Now into creation's burden
you have come to bear its griefs,
and at last to crush the serpent
died, a leaf among the leaves.
You were counted with the worthless,
as a thief among the thieves.

Knowing this would mean your slaughter,
still you filled the wounded world.
Even the rope that Judas knotted
had you woven in the cord.
You were counted with the godless,
and you took their death as yours.

Even the leaf by winter withered
clinging empty to the vine
you will draw into your kingdom
when you drink the brand-new wine.
You were counted with the sinners:
Count us, Lord, with the divine.

Ecce Homo, Nuno Gonçalves, 15th century By Unknown author – [1], Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=6014228

Eden

It's not that anything is changed
between this moment and the next,
but everything is rearranged—
and with new eyes you read the text.

The overpass beneath my wheels
I dread, but dare not close my eyes.
I drive as if no image fills
my mind, of plunging from its side.

If I don't watch the needle pierce
the fragile stronghold of my skin,
I am still whole—until that glimpse.
Before I knew, there was no sin.

You'd looked on Eve a thousand times.
Day after blessèd day you'd seen
the way her hips and shoulders rhymed,
then all at once it was obscene.

Don't think about it.  Just don't look.
The words are there, but I can't read—
until I can.  The world's a book
and in its pages something bleeds.

Yet Eden, as it ever was,
lies all around us, full of snakes,
and all that blessed us then still does,
reaching out through paragraph breaks.

“Eve and the Serpent.” Plate from Penholm by G. Howell-Baker.- https://digital.cincinnatilibrary.org/digital/collection/p16998coll21/id/38116/rec/1, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=104281987