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GETHSEMANE

I journeyed through the twilight
Where all was dark and drear,
And wondered why my Savior
Did not seem always near.
As steeper grew the pathway
And full of thorns the road,
I stumbled, deaf and blinded,
Beneath my heavy load.

The tears of my own grieving
Had filled mine eyes with mist,
And thro’ the vapory veiling
The face of Christ I missed.
At last I fixed my vision
On Heavenly Heights of Love,
Whose tips were ever glowing
In sunlight from above.

And wandering thus, up-gazing,
I earnestly pressed on,
Unheeding thorns and thistles
By which my feet were torn.
At last, worn out and weary,
I fell upon the ground.
Where, worn by time and tempest,
A granite cross I found.

I leaned my head upon it,
My all on it I laid;
Together with my sorrows,
My joys I also gave.
Then suddenly a rustling
Of pinions filled the air,
And lo! beside me kneeling
I saw an Angel there.
And midnight in the Garden
Was bright as day to me,
For Christ stood ‘mid the shadows
Of my Gethsemane!
BIRLA I. MORRIS.

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— April 1, 1913 —