I

Within the garden’s sombre shade,

The Christ of God in anguish prayed;—

And who that agony could tell,

As from his brow the blood-drops fell?

II

“Can you not watch one hour?” He saith,

“My soul is sorrowful to death.”

But He alone the vigil kept,

While worn disciples slumbering slept.

III

O dark the cloud that threatening hung,

And sore the grief His soul that wrung,—

The hate of man, the guilty name,

The bitter Cross, the sin and shame.

IV

“If I must drink this cup,” He prayed,

“The burden bear upon me laid,

My God, I bow Me to Thy will,

And meekly Thy behest fulfil.”

V

My soul, when to the garden led,

And clouds are gathering overhead,

When none the hour of anguish shares,

To God direct thy earnest prayers.

VI

“Thy will be done, Thy will is best,—

Even then the bitter cup is blest,—

If ’tis Thy will the cup I’ll drain,

Despite the agony of pain.”