"COULD'ST THOU NOT WATCH WITH ME ONE HOUR?"
The night is dark; behold the shade was deeper
In the old garden of Gethsemane,
When that calm voice awoke the weary sleeper—
Could'st thou not watch one hour alone with me? O thou, so weary of thy self-denials,
And so impatient of thy daily cross,
Is it so hard to bear thy little trials,
To count all earthly things a gainful loss? What if thou always suffer tribulation,
And if thy Christian warfare never cease?
The gaining of the quiet habitation
Shall gather thee to everlasting peace. But here we all must suffer, walking lonely
The path that Jesus once himself hath gone;
Watch thou in patience through the dark hour only;
This one dark hour before the eternal dawn. The captive's oar may pause upon the galley,
The soldier sleep beneath the plumed crest,
And Peace shall fold her wing o'er hill and valley,
But thou, O Christian, must not take thy rest. Thou must walk on, however man upbraid thee,
With Him who trod the wine-press all alone;
Thou wilt not find one human hand to aid thee—
One human soul to comprehend thine own. Heed not the images forever thronging,
From out the foregone life thou liv'st no more;
Faint-hearted mariner! still art thou longing
For the dim line of the receding shore? Wilt thou find rest of soul in thy returning
To that old path thou hast so vainly trod?
Hast thou forgotten all thy weary yearning
To walk among the children of thy God? Faithful and steadfast in their consecration,
Living by that high faith to thee so dim,
Declaring before God thy dedication,
So far from thee because so near to Him? Can'st thou forget thy Christian superscription—
"Behold we count them happy who endure?"
What treasure would thou, in the land Egyptian,
Repass the stormy water to secure? Poor wandering soul! I know that thou art seeking
Some easier way, as all have sought before,
To silence the reproachful inward speaking—
Some landward path unto an island shore. The cross is heavy in thy human measure,
The way too narrow for thine inward pride;
Thou canst not lay thine intellectual treasure
At the low footstool of the Crucified. Oh, that thy faithless soul, one hour only,
Would comprehend the Christian's perfect life—
Despised with Jesus, sorrowful and lonely,
Yet calmly looking upward in its strife. For poverty and self-renunciation,
The Father yielded back a thousand-fold;
In the calm stillness of regeneration
Cometh a joy we never knew of old. In meek obedience to the heavenly Teacher,
Thy weary soul can find its only peace;
Seeking no aid from any human creature—
Looking to God alone for its release. And He will come in his own time and power
To set his earnest-hearted children free;
Watch only through this dark and painful hour
And the bright morning yet will break for thee.