 | Wood-notes and Church-bells |  |
219
GETHSEMANE.
'Mid shadowy olives in that garden groundSee the cold moonlight through the branches streaming
On His bowed head: no other light—no beaming
Of love Divine or human, now is found.
The voice of His “strong cries”—no other sound—
Stirs the night-air: unwatchful friends lie dreaming;
While o'er the brook yon temple towers are gleaming
Above a careless city slumber-bound.
Under God's mighty hand behold Him languish,
Crushed by the weight of our imputed guilt,
Alone and all unaided in His anguish:
While crimson drops start to His brow, in token
Of saving blood impatient to be spilt,
And sinless body eager to be broken!
| Wood-notes and Church-bells | |