In far‑off Palestine there is
        A place whose history,

In Time nor in Eternity,
        Shall e’er forgotten be—

The Garden of Gethsemane,
        Where we in memory tread

The soil that Jesus’ feet oft pressed;
        And his tears hallowed;

For when his work on earth was done,
        And he would soon depart,

And leave this unfriendly world
        Those dearest to his heart,

He sought with them the solitude
        Of that familiar place,

And there "exceeding sorrowful,"
        Bowed down with tear‑stained face

In spirit gladly he has done
        His Father’s righteous will;

But had the oft‑times weary flesh,
        Failed some jot to fulfil?

"By one man’s disobedience,
        Death passed upon all men."

Nor could the blood of many beasts
        Cleanse them from inbred sin.

God had, through Moses’ Law, decreed
        A "Corresponding price,"

Therefore the Offerer must bring
        A perfect sacrifice

And fear of death—eternal Death—
        Encompassed him that night,

Oh, would the Cross thus banish him
        Forever from God’s sight,

And leave the lost and dying world,
        Which he had come to save,

With nevermore a ray of hope
        Of life beyond the grave?

And in that dark and lonely hour,
        Without one pitying eye,

Thrice from his troubled heart there came
        The same despairing cry,

"

O Father, if ’tis possible,
        Remove this cup from me,

If not, except I drink of it,
        Shall I, not bow to Thee?"

Not Calv’ry’s bitter pain or shame,
        The "cup" he prayed to shun;

But endless Death—yet even so,
        "Thy will, not mine, be done."

And oh, how worthless our lives seem,
        As we behold him there—

The Son of God, that spotless Lamb,
        In agonizing prayer.

Poems of the Way
Margaret H. Black