I. The Agony in the Garden
Joseph, a carpenter of Nazareth, And his wife Mary had an only child, Jesus: One holy from his mother's womb. Both parents loved him: Mary's heart alone Beat with his blood, and, by her love and his, She knew that God was with her, and she strove Meekly to do the work appointed her; To cherish him with undivided care Who deigned to call her mother, and who loved From her the name of son. And Mary gave Her heart to him, and feared not; yet she seemed To hold as sacred that he said or did; And, unlike other women, never spake His words of innocence again; but all Were humbly treasured in her memory With the first secret of his birth. So strong Grew her affection, as the child increased In wisdom and in stature with his years, That many mothers wondered, saying: “These Our little ones claim in our hearts a place The next to God; but Mary's tenderness Grows almost into reverence for her child. Is he not of herself? I' the temple when Kneeling to pray, on him she bends her eyes, As though God only heard her prayer through him. Is he to be a prophet? Nay, we know That out of Galilee no prophet comes.”
But all their children made the boy their friend.
Three cottages that overlooked the sea Stood side by side eastward of Nazareth. Behind them rose a sheltering range of cliffs, Purple and yellow, verdure-spotted, red, Layer upon layer built up against the sky. In front a row of sloping meadows lay, Parted by narrow streams, that rose above, Leaped from the rocks, and cut the sands below Into deep channels widening to the sea.
Within the humblest of these three abodes Dwelt Joseph, his wife Mary, and their child. A honeysuckle and a moss-rose grew, With many blossoms, on their cottage front; And o'er the gable warmed by the South A sunny grape vine broadened shady leaves Which gave its tendrils shelter, as they hung Trembling upon the bloom of purple fruit. And, like the wreathed shadows and deep glows Which the sun spreads from some old oriel Upon the marble Altar and the gold Of God's own Tabernacle, where he dwells For ever, so the blossoms and the vine, On Jesus' home climbing above the roof, Traced intricate their windings all about The yellow thatch, and part concealed the nests Whence noisy close-housed sparrows peeped unseen. And Joseph had a little dove-cote placed Between the gable-window and the eaves, Where two white turtle doves (a gift of love From Mary's kinsman Zachary to her child) Cooed pleasantly; and broke upon the ear The ever dying sound of falling waves.
And so it came to pass, one Summer morn, The mother dove first brought her fledgeling out To see the sun. It was her only one, And she had breasted it through three long weeks With patient instinct till it broke the shell; And she had nursed it with all tender care, Another three, and watched the white down grow Into full feather, till it left her nest. And now it stood outside its narrow home, With tremulous wings let loose and blinking eyes; While, hovering near, the old dove often tried By many lures to tempt it to the ground, That they might feed from Jesus' hand, who stood Watching them from below. The timid bird At last took heart, and, stretching out its wings, Brushed the light vine-leaves as it fluttered down. Just then a hawk rose from a tree, and thrice Wheeled in the air, and poised his aim to drop On the young dove, whose quivering plumage swelled About the sunken talons as it died. Then the hawk fixed his round eye on the child, Shook from his beak the stained down, screamed, and flapped His broad arched wings, and, darting to a cleft I' the rocks, there sullenly devoured his prey. And Jesus heard the mother's anguished cry, Weak like the distant sob of some lost child, Who in his terror runs from path to path, Doubtful alike of all; so did the dove, As though death-stricken, beat about the air; Till, settling on the vine, she drooped her head Deep in her ruffled feathers. She sat there, Brooding upon her loss, and did not move All through that day.
And, sitting by her, covered up his face: Until a cloud, alone between the earth And sun, passed with its shadow over him. Then Jesus for a moment looked above; And a few drops of rain fell on his brow, Sad, as with broken hints of a lost dream, Or dim foreboding of some future ill.
Now, from a garden near, a fair-haired girl Came, carrying a handful of choice flowers, Which in her lap she sorted orderly, As little children do at Easter-time To have all seemly when their Lord shall rise. Then Jesus' covered face she gently raised, Placed in his hand the flowers, and kissed his cheek And tried with soothing words to comfort him; He from his eyes spoke thanks.
Fast trickling down his face, drop upon drop, Fell to the ground. That sad look left him not Till night brought sleep, and sleep closed o'er his woe.