IN THE GARDEN.
175
More softly blows the summer wind to lift
His mantle's sacred fold;
Through all the place sweet sighs and odors drift
Like bliss half-told;
And in the fading west a single star
Trembles with rapture watching Him afar!
His mantle's sacred fold;
Through all the place sweet sighs and odors drift
Like bliss half-told;
And in the fading west a single star
Trembles with rapture watching Him afar!
And oh, that I should see that star remote
Yet His near Glory miss
Whereto the sun itself and stars do float
As motes, I wis!
But since no man that Glory could abide,
How should I dare lament the sight denied!
Yet His near Glory miss
Whereto the sun itself and stars do float
As motes, I wis!
But since no man that Glory could abide,
How should I dare lament the sight denied!
Dark, hushed and dark, the garden round me grows,
The folded flowers more sweet;
I hearken long to hear Him where He goes
With noiseless feet,
Till the familiar place seems sad and strange,
And Eden to Gethsemane doth change.
The folded flowers more sweet;
I hearken long to hear Him where He goes
With noiseless feet,
Till the familiar place seems sad and strange,
And Eden to Gethsemane doth change.
Through heavy silence falls the heavy dew
Like sweat of sorrow wrung,
As if the bitter cup were filled anew
O'er which He hung,
Whose Love all love transcending overcame,
For us endured the Cross, despised the shame!
Like sweat of sorrow wrung,
As if the bitter cup were filled anew
O'er which He hung,
Whose Love all love transcending overcame,
For us endured the Cross, despised the shame!
