W. Garrett Horder, comp. The Poets’ Bible: New Testament. 1895.
Gethsemane
Anonymous‘The Lord hath laid on Him the iniquity of us all.’—I
W
Where still night reigned around,
A mournful cry of bitter anguish wailed;
There, hid from mortal gaze,
One knelt in deep amaze,
A Heart oppressed beneath its Burthen quailed.
Was our dear Lord, Who bore
Our sin’s great burthen that on Him was laid;
While none could bring relief,
To that exceeding grief,
The grief that made His human Soul afraid.
Forced out by mental pains,
Great Drops of Blood adown the verdure fall;
Such whelming fears assail,
That heart and courage fail,
As first essays of sin’s strange load appal.
Could fathom that abyss,
Whose lowest depths to Him stood all revealed;
The sins of Adam’s race,
Against God’s Love and Grace,
His thoughts embraced them all as thus He kneeled.
And deeds of evil men,
All sins of each degree, of every kind;
Not as to mortal eyes,
But in their hellish guise,
Were then all bared to His Omniscient Mind.
From Adam’s grievous fall,
Till earth’s Last Day and solemn Reckoning Time;
Of all God’s Books record,
The curse, the due reward,
Th’ iniquity of all now laid on Him!
His Prescient Mind foreknows,
From first approach of Judas’ torch-led host;
That false disciple’s kiss,
And all that followed this,
Till on the Cross He yielded up the ghost.
From cruel scourge’s lash,
And sharpest pricks of that mock thorny Crown;
The insults, blows, and scorn,
That must be meekly borne,
These weigh the Son of Man’s meek Spirit down.
And shrinks with human fear,
The Cross with curse o’erlaid and angry doom;
The hours of racking pain
He must, nailed there, sustain,
While lingering death life’s marrow shall consume.
Behold Him prostrate fall,
And humbly kneel in silent anguish there;
Till, with an inward groan,
Towards the Heavenly Throne,
With earnest pleading, He directs His Prayer.
O take this Cup away!
Thou hast all power to do Thy Will Divine;
Remove, if it may be,
This Cup away from Me!
Yet, Father, not My Will be done, but Thine.”
With Prostrate Form implored;
That even then that Hour might pass away;
Until from Heaven, at length,
An angel brought Him strength,
And healing balm His troubled Soul to stay.
He took, as was decreed,
And drained the Cup His Heavenly Father gave;
And therefore songs of praise
We ransomed sinners raise,
To Him Who meekly died our souls to save.