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W. Garrett Horder, comp. The Poets’ Bible: New Testament. 1895.


W. B. Flower (1819–1868)

EVENTFUL night is this, on which

The lamps of Heaven are dim,

And gentle Kedron fears to rill

Its wonted evening Hymn,

Nor woo the winds the sleeping flower,

Lest they should break the stillness of the hour.

But, oh, what Cry is that, which now

Floats on the midnight air,

As moan of One that ere He dies

Would soothe His Soul in prayer?

Such wails of bitter Agony

Are those that come from out Gethsemane.

Within that Garden kneeleth One

Bereft of human aid,

By one deemed true in rimes gone by

Ere long to be betrayed:

Yes, JESUS kneeleth down to pray,

Haply His bitter Cup may pass away.

Dire pangs are His! Blood-drops of Sweat

Stream down His sacred Brow:


Submissive I would bow;

Let this Cup pass; oh, hear Thy Son;

And yet, not Will of Mine, but Thine be done.

The Cup it passed not—for the hour

Of death was nigh at hand;

And yon armed soldiery,

A rude and ruthless band,

Led from that place, and crucified;

Jesus the Guiltless for the guilty died.

Then oft, my Soul, as thou shalt feel

The wily Tempter’s power,

Steal from the world a time, and share

The sorrows of that hour;

Bethink thee of Gethsemane;

Remember there thy Saviour died for thee.