This poem should probably belong earlier in the Lent sequence, but I hadn’t decided until recently where to place it. It best belongs, chronologically, between Jesus’ triumphal entry in Jerusalem and the Passover meal. Here it is now:Late Winter: The Fig-Tree The leaves were there. They promised something – Early fruit perhaps, the first sign Of winter dying. The Temple stood, Before us, and behind us sang The lingering, joyful echoes Of crowds cheering. The Lord approached The fig-tree, hoping now To find some sign, amidst the throng, Of fruit appearing. But though its leaves Were full and lush, it Bore no fruit. It was not the time For figs growing. Yet the Lord, angered, Cursed the tree then For all its false signs and overtures Of fruit-bearing. And into the Temple He walked, whip in hand lest He find there no signs either Of fruit growing.