The Whistle Maker and Other Poems/Gethsemane
1914
The chilling night winds shake the trees,
Black night is all around,
The Master-man on bended knees
Sends forth a pleading sound.
He prays alone, while bloodlike sweat
From brow and heart wells up—
"O, Father mine, forgive, forget!
Let pass this bitter cup."
"Yet not My will, but Thine be done;
Thou see'st and knowest all,
Though mortal man, I'm still Thy son;
—This cup is filled with gall.
"Came I for this, to suffer pain
Man's soul to save from loss,
That I as sacrifice once slain,
Should bear his future cross.
But now the years before Me roll,
The sons of man I see
In murderous strife take dreadful toll,
Forgetting Thou and Me!
But, calling on Thy name withal.
O, mockery! O, shame!
While by their hands their brothers fall,
Through murder-seeking fame.
"O, Father, let this bitter cup
Of man's redemption be
Placed to My lips when lifted up
Through Me let them be free.
When starting from Thy throne I knew
Great sorrow there must be,
Ere man could gain the higher view
Or be as one with Me.
But cries of women come tonight—
A mighty surging flood;
They call to Me to give men light
And still this sea of blood!"
All Wisdom, Father, comes from Thee,
Thou fashioneth the cup,
Thou knowest how each step shall be
Ere man is lifted up;
But, Father, when the dregs I drain,
On this new Calvary,
My love shall take away all pain,
When men shall turn to me
I'll heal the wounded broken soul
And, Father, grant to Me
That power be mine as years shall roll—
To turn their hearts to Thee.
Aug 30, 1914.