Christ in the Garden

He knelt—the Saviour knelt and pray'd, When but His Father's eye Look'd thro' the lonely Garden's shade, On that dread agony! The Lord of All above, beneath, Was bow'd with sorrow unto death.

The sun set in a fearful hour; The heavens might well grow dim, When this mortality had power, So to o'ershadow Him! That He who gave man's breath might know The very depths of human woe.

He knew them all!—the doubt, the strife, The faint perplexing dread; The mists that hang o'er parting life, All darken'd round His head; And the Deliverer knelt to pray— Yet pass'd it not, that cup, away! It pass'd not—tho' the stormy wave Had sunk beneath His tread; It pass'd not—tho' to Him the grave Had yielded up its dead. But there was sent Him, from on high, A gift of strength, for man to die!

And was His mortal hour beset With anguish and dismay? How may we meet our conflict yet In the dark, narrow way? How, but thro' Him, that path who trod?— Save, or we perish, Son of God!