Gethsemane

3 0 00

Gethsemane

Into the garden of sorrow,

Some day we all must roam,

If not to-day, then to-morrow,

Bow ’neath its purple dome,

Out from the musk-laden banqueting halls,

Doffing our mirth-spangled vestments like thralls,

Softly we wend to Gethsemane,

In the hour that sorrow calls!