Poem by John Pierpont

The Garden of Gethsemane

O'er Kedron's stream, and Salem's height.
And Olivet's brown steep,
Moves the majestic queen of night,
And throws from heaven her silver light,
And sees the world asleep.

All but the children of distress,
Of sorrow, grief, and care—
Whom sleep, though prayed for, will not bless;
These leave the couch of restlessness,
To breathe the cool, calm air.

For those who shun the glare of day,
There's a composing power
That meets them, on their lonely way,
In the still air, the sober ray
Of this religious hour.

'T is a religious hour;—for he
Who many a grief shall bear,
In his own body on the tree,
Is kneeling in Gethsemane,
In agony and prayer.

O, Holy Father, when the light
Of earthly joy grows dim,
May hope in Christ grow strong and bright,
To all who kneel, in sorrow's night,
In trust and prayer like him.

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