The gardens of the Christ

The gardens of the Christ                                                                                 
 
In Meherazad’s quietude, no one around,
not even myself; opposite Mandali Hall,
 
the pillowed floor, the adorned chair,
not having the heart to enter
 
or even to step upon the veranda or around back
to mount the narrow stoop to His bedroom door. 
 
Instead, I sit in the weeping dust, a mortal,
cumbersome sacrilege in the gardens of the Christ.
 
How heedless and indulgent were my visits!
How unsettled and self-centered among the mandali,
 
more concerned about fitting into a foreign milieu
than baring my soul to a majesty and grace
 
I had not imagined existed; nor ever could exist.
And the mercy then and now of my Lord
 
overwhelming me in the imagined Meherazad dust,
as He forgave and forgives my ignorance, my trespass,
 
my effrontery and bids me welcome.  As no one ever has,
ever had or ever could, He bids me welcome.
 
O child of God, as Rumi said – You knew my coins
were counterfeit and You accepted them anyway.