tr., John Brownlie
Within the garden's sombre shade,
The Christ of God in anguish prayed; --
And who that agony could tell,
As from his brow the blood-drops fell?
|Can you not watch one hour?| He saith,
|My soul is sorrowful to death.|
But He alone the vigil kept,
While worn disciples slumbering slept.
O dark the cloud that threatening hung,
And sore the grief His soul that wrung, --
The hate of man, the guilty name,
The bitter Cross, the sin and shame.
|If I must drink this cup,| He prayed,
|The burden bear upon me laid,
My God, I bow Me to Thy will,
And meekly Thy behest fulfil.|
My soul, when to the garden led,
And clouds are gathering overhead,
When none the hour of anguish shares,
To God direct thy earnest prayers.
|Thy will be done, Thy will is best, --
Even then the bitter cup is blest, --
If 'tis Thy will the cup I'll drain,
Despite the agony of pain.|