The night is still, The stony paths are dim; In silent fear The Garden waits for Him -- The trees are black Upon the eastern sky, A night bird calls At His slow passing by. The cedar boughs Bend dark above His head -- The night moth flies From Him in fluttering dread -- The flowers sleep; No mortal thing may go To comfort Him In His almighty woe. Heavy with dreams The three disciples lie -- Alone He prays This Cup may pass Him by. An angel bends With strength-enfolding wings, He stoops, He drinks, And life eternal springs. |