O'er Kedron's stream, and Salem's height. <br />And Olivet's brown steep, <br />Moves the majestic queen of night, <br />And throws from heaven her silver light, <br />And sees the world asleep. <br /> <br /> <br />All but the children of distress, <br />Of sorrow, grief, and care- <br />Whom sleep, though prayed for, will not bless; <br />These leave the couch of restlessness, <br />To breathe the cool, calm air. <br /> <br /> <br />For those who shun the glare of day, <br />There's a composing power <br />That meets them, on their lonely way, <br />In the still air, the sober ray <br />Of this religious hour. <br /> <br /> <br />'T is a religious hour;-for he <br />Who many a grief shall bear, <br />In his own body on the tree, <br />Is kneeling in Gethsemane, <br />In agony and prayer. <br /> <br /> <br />O, Holy Father, when the light <br />Of earthly joy grows dim, <br />May hope in Christ grow strong and bright, <br />To all who kneel, in sorrow's night, <br />In trust and prayer like him.<br /><br />John Pierpont<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-garden-of-gethsemane-2/
