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Christ in the Garden.
It pass'd not—tho' the stormy wave
Had sunk beneath His tread;
It pass'd not—tho' to Him the grave
Had yielded up its dead.
But there was sent Him, from on high,
A gift of strength, for man to die!
And was His mortal hour beset
With anguish and dismay?
How may we meet our conflict yet
In the dark, narrow way?
How, but thro' Him, that path who trod?—
Save, or we perish, Son of God!
