I know the silence of Gethsemane
So sodden thick with fear and grief forlorn.
(And somewhere off I think I hear a snore
And wonder if my friends have tired of me.)
I know as well the silence when I see
The empty tomb first thing on Easter morn
And wonder where the body has been borne
In utter deafness to the mystery.
The silence though that is to me most meet
Is when I’m sitting peaceful at his feet,
My demoniac days now deathly still.
I want to stay there, but he says that now
I must go home and tell the people how
He drove my legion squealing down the hill.
Jeffrey Essmann is an essayist and poet living in New York. His work has appeared in numerous magazines and literary journals, among them America Magazine, Dappled Things, the St. Austin Review and The Road Not Taken. He is a Benedictine oblate of Mt. Saviour Monastery.