Had that garden known before
its name so famed would be,
it might have rather never been,
than be called Gethsemane.
As flowers wept beside the Christ
where he knelt that night to pray,
His sweating brow, wept drops of blood,
which grasses swept away.
The stormy host, the hanging moon
cast beams on Jesus' face,
and looked in awe upon their Lord
knelt in that garden place
The angel's wings beat back the wind
it stirred as he came down,
to strengthen One whom he called Lord,
laid prostrate on the ground.
A murderous crowd in secret stole
to where the Savior prayed.
Casting dark shadows on the trees,
their flaming lanterns swayed.
A gentle Christ they met that night:
"Who is it that you seek?"
And with His words drew back and fell
for seeing Him so meek.
They bound His hands and carried Him
to try Him for a lie.
False witnesses and my wretched heart
condemned the Lord to die.
Creation screamed as He hung that day,
in bitter bleak despair.
The sky cried out, the earth enraged
to see their Savior there.
A weeping dawn could not restrain
the tears of rain it spread
to try to wash away the blood
its Master there had shed.
But little did creation know
that when three days were spent,
their Lord and Master would arise
and banish their lament.
With joyful shouts the clouds embraced
the Lord they thought was dead.
The heavens and their wondrous hosts
had waiting arms outspread.
In triumphant victory o'er the grace
He soared through glorious skies,
giving nature back its song;
a rapture for its sighs.
Yet through the years creation groans,
its bondage yet to break.
For bound it is, and does remain
all for redemptions sake.
Its freedom and expectation waits,
its liberty concealed.
And just as we, it hopes till all
God's sons will be revealed.
Written by Lynette T. Gibson
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