Olive Oil
October 27, 2013
A trench yea deep, here,
cut in stone,
All set about with trees,
The trees that are with
olives grown,
Here in Gethsemane.
And yearly ring those
trees with joy,
With olives in the trench,
As feet tread out the
olive’s oil,
And squeeze, and press,
and pinch.
‘Twas here one night
instead of fun,
The garden rang with
screams,
As crowds of men came to
catch One,
Eleven fled like streams.
So like the olive,
squeezed and pressed,
To sweeten life and toil,
The One for all was put to
death,
To make sweet olive oil.
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