Gethsemane by Mabel Corinne Craker

Pacific Press Publishing Association · Mountain View, California · Apr 14, 1914

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 41, No. 14.

Gethsemane

By Mabel Corinne Craker

BRIGHT rose the paschal moon o'er the dark garden, Tinting with silver sheen cypress and palm-trees. Cloudless the heav'nly dome circled above it. Hushed were the songs of birds, quiet the night breeze. Thus lay Gethsemane, placid and tranquil. Stillness of death enwrapped all her recesses. Entered this calm retreat Jesus our Saviour, Bowed with His load of grief, weak with distresses; Guiltless, yet bearing the shame of the guilty; Far from His Father's side—sin's greatest torture. Dew from the leafy boughs bathed His form stricken. Nature, with tearful eyes, wept for its Author. Heaven so deeply mourned, harp-strings were silent. God was withholding His love and His power. Christ, the Commander of angels in glory, Grieved as the hopeless in their dying hour. Drained was that bitter cup—drained for each mortal— With trembling hand. Soon an angel from heaven Steadied His form while His lips, parched with anguish, Emptied the dregs from the cup which was given. Fain would I linger within the damp garden, Hear the deep groanings—that prayer twice repeated, Down His worn face see the drops of blood trickle, Realize fully my sins were there meted. Ne'er should I deem that my burden's too heavy, Though He should beckon where grief with toil blendeth, Ask me to sip from a cup that is briny. Heaven's balm falls on the head that low bendeth.