Poems

Gethsemane and Calvary

In far off Palestine there is
       A place where history,
In Time nor in Eternity,
       Shall e’er forgotten be—
The Garden of Gethsemane,
       Where we in memory tread
The soil that Jesus feet oft pressed,
       And his tears hallowed;
For when his work on earth was done.
       And he would soon depart,
And leave this unfriendly world,
       Those dearest to his heart,
He sought with them the solitude
       Of that familiar place,
And there “exceeding sorrowful,”
       Bowed down with tear-stained face.
In spirit he had gladly done
       His Father’s righteous will;
But had the oft-times weary flesh,
       Failed some jot to fulfill?
“By one man’s disobedience,
       Death passed upon all men.”
Nor could the blood of many beasts
       Cleanse them from inbred sin.
God had, through Moses’ law decreed
       A “Corresponding Price.”
Therefore the offerer must bring
       A perfect sacrifice.
And fear of death—eternal death—
       Encompassed him that night,
O, would the cross thus banish him
       Forever from God’s sight,
And leave the lost and dying world,
       Which he had come to save
With nevermore a ray of hope
       Of life beyond the grave?
And in that dark and lonely hour,
       Without one pitying eye,
Thrice from his heart there came
       The same despairing cry,
“O Father, if ‘tis possible,
       Remove this cup from me,
If not, except I drink of it,
       Shall I now bow to Thee?
Not Calv’ry’s bitter pain nor shame,
       The “cup” he prayed to shun;
But endless death—yet even so,
       “Thy will, not mine, be done.”
And oh, how worthless our lives seem,
       As we behold him there—
The Son of God, that spotless Lamb,
       In agonizing prayer.

—Margaret Black
Poems of the Way, p. 11

To Jesus Always

I always go to Jesus,
When troubled or distressed;
I always find a refuge
When I with Him can rest.

I tell Him all my trials,
I tell Him all my grief;
And while my lips are speaking
He gives my heart relief.

When full of dread forebodings,
And flowing o’er with tears,
He calms away my sorrows,
And hushes all my fears.

He comprehends my weakness,
The peril I am in,
And He supplies the armor
I need to vanquish sin.

When those are cold and faithless
Who once were fond and true,
With careless hearts forsaking
The old friends for the new,

I turn to Him whose friendship
Knows neither change nor end:
I always find in Jesus
An ever faithful Friend.

I always go to Jesus;
No matter when or where
I seek His gracious presence,
I’m sure to find Him there.

In times of joy or sorrow,
Whate’er my need may be,
I always go to Jesus,
And Jesus comforts me.

—Anonymous, Poems of Dawn, p. 30

I Surrender All

For years, no wisdom, no renown,
Only my life can I lay down;
Only me heart, Lord, to thy throne I bring:
And pray a child of thine I may go forth
And spread glad tidings through the earth,
And teach sad hearts to know thy worth!
Lord, here am I.

—C. Whitmarsh, Reprints p. 4071

* * * * *

One thing alone, dear Lord, I have,
I may to thee resign;
All else is thine that thou hast formed,
Their use alone is mine.

Though I should offer lands or gold,
What profit to me there?
For thou hast always owned them all,
I but thy bounty share.

But thou hast placed in mortal frame
A will to do or not,
As I may list and, unconcerned,
I may pursue my lot.

This will may lead me down to death,
Or to a rich reward.
I tremble, Father, at the thought
Of that I have to guard.

But, blessed Savior, thou hast said,
The weak thou wilt sustain;
Surrendering my will to thee,
I can no more refrain.

Resigning this, my fear now flee.
All I an give is thine;
To chasten, polish, guide, that in
Thy glory I may shine.

—A. J. Morris, Reprints, p. 4071

A Sponge of Gall

No water cool, refreshing, sweet,
But sponge with vinegar and gall,
Was given to his thirsting call
From off the cross in mid-day heat.

Our trials, too, at time hurt sore,
And we cry out for waters pure—
Refreshing truths, well-proved, secure—
And truths he gives us more and more.

How sweet they sound within our ears,
Yet often, too, they seem a cross
As they force some earthly loss,
Which we must take and shed no tears.

But, as his all Christ freely gave,
When life will turn its final page,
And we cry out, our thirst to assuage,
Let’s drink its draught with valor brave.

—Carl Hagensick