“Father, if it be possible, this cup
Take thou away.—Yet not my will but thine:”
The sleeping friends who could not watch one hour,
The torch, the flashing sword, the traitor’s kiss,
The astonished angel, with the tear of Heaven
Upon his cheek, still striving to assuage
Those fearful pangs that bowed the Son of God,
Like a bruised reed. Thou who hast power to look
Thus at Gethsemane, be still! be still!
What are thine insect-woes, compared to His