Olive Oil

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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