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’Neath the Garden of Gethsemane’s

Olive-wood,

Thou didst cast Thy will away from Thee

In Thy blood.

Through the shade, when torches spat their light,

And arms shone,

Thou didst find Thy lovers and Thy friends

Were all gone.

In the Judgment Hall, Thy hands and feet

Bound with cord,

Thou didst lose Thy freedom’s sweetness—all

Thy freedom, Lord.

In the Soldiers’ Hall, Thy Sovereignty

Laughed to naught,

Thou wert scourged, Thy brow by bramble-wreath

Sharply caught.

Stripped of vest and garments Thou didst lie,

Mid hill-moss,

Naked, helpless as a nurse’s child,

On Thy cross.

Raised, Thou gavest to another son,

Standing by,

Her who bore Thee once, and, deep in pain,

Watched Thee die.

All was cast away from Thee; and then,

With wild drouth,

“Why dost Thou forsake me, Father?” broke

From Thy mouth.

Everything gone from Thee, even daylight;

None to trust;

Thou didst render up Thy holy Life

To the dust.

Help me, from my passion, to recall

Thy sheer loss,

And adore the sovereign nakedness

Of Thy Cross!