The Gardener

by Paul Hall

I wept.

At the mention of my name, I knew him.

With a touch of tender mercy,

Had not these hands healed me?

In my despair and my infirmity,

Had he not come?

What worth was I?

What worth was I

That he should say,

Mary, be thou healed?

And yet he had known me

As though I had been molded

By these very hands.

He had known me,

And when he touched my head

He healed not only my body

But my heart.