Alone in deepest agony, while tired apostles slept;
No one to share His vigil--weep with Him as He wept;
Before Him, clearly rising, the Cross, the dying pain,
And sins of hosts unnumbered whose souls He dies to gain.

O Garden of Gethsemane! the God-like lesson, then
Left as a precious token to suff'ring, sorrowing men,
Has breaking hearts oft strengthened, that else, so sharply
tried,
Had sunk beneath sin's burden and in despair had died.

O Garden of Gethsemane! "when pressed and sore afraid,"
May I in spirit enter beneath thine olive shade,
And, great though be my anguish, still, like that God-like One,
Submissive say: "Oh Father! Thy will, not mine, be done!"




MYSTICAL ROSE, PRAY FOR US!


O aptly named, Illustrious One!
Thou art that flower fair
That filled this vast and changeful world
With mystic perfume rare--
Shedding on all the balmy breath
Of countless virtues high,
Rising like fragrant odours rich,