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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 ye 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,"--

And then the bitter cup is blest,

If for His will the cup I drain,

Despite the agony and pain.

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