In the hour of darkness the moon had hid her face,
And all the world was sleeping, save one who wept.
He left the meager comfort of well-meaning friends,
Charging them, Watch; and into the garden crept,
And heard the lie of the world:
That the darkness here is a fell and final thing;
And flesh will crumble for aye in the valley of bones,
And tongues that are parched will never find voice to sing.
And this is our hope: that he whose sweat was blood,
As the heavy droplets fell and his spirits sank,
Lifted his eyes and murmured Thy will be done;
Lifted cracked lips to the Father’s cup; and drank.
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