Earth's Garden Of Sorrow

Gethsemane, Gethsemane, Gethsemane!
Oh, Garden of Sorrow! Whose pathways
Knew His tread and His sacred sorrow.
Oh, that thy herbage might speak!
That thy stones might cry out!
That thy paths might utter what His words spoke!
For like a pean of joy I know they would arise;
Ne'er knowing that brassy note of fear,
But a melody perfect in its fashioning,
A perfect prayer.
Gethsemane, Gethsemane, Gethsemane!
Oh, sacred spot! The bosom upon which
He laid His head and wept,
No tear of fear nor sorrow,
Save for the earth's tarrying.
Oh, that thy herbage might cry out!
Oh, that thy stones might utter His words!
Gethsemane, Gethsemane, Gethsemane!
Unto a garden spot
Did He withdraw and pray,-
Earth, seek out thy Garden!