 | Mystic Trees |  |
99
“AND BLOODY SWEAT”
I have heard one dying,Not in sorrow, or in sighing,
In a misery of moan on moan,
In an anguish to be laid so lone,
With the blood that stoppeth slow,
With the cold, cold dark a-blow,
With the flesh that murmureth
Currish little cries of death:
I have heard one dying so ...
To Gethsemane I go—
Christ, of God Thy sweat did win
Pardon for this rebel sin.
Sprinkle with these precious drops
Till the accusation stops;
And Thou openest Wound on Wound
For this soul of Thy compassion swooned.
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