Gethsemane

I have a well-kept garden
That I call my soul--
It's full of verdant pardon
And because of Christ it's whole.

His spirit was not lame,
No imperfection could be found
When He made historic claim
To my soul, my garden ground.

Was it the day He knelt
In prayer with drops of blood?
In sweaty tears He felt
Perhaps, the place in which I stood.

So lost and far from home
From His Father's loving care--
Hurting and alone
In spiritual despair.

As he knelt and struggled with
His own grieved garden-soul,
Could He hear my future praises lift
With Heaven's vast and thankful roll?

What prompted Him to obey
And do His Father's holy will,
I can not for certain say
But think that Love held sway and did fulfill.

So, when I face a trial or strife,
I know the victory has been won.
I speak my Savior's words of life:
"Not my will, but Yours be done."

You see, I have a well-kept garden
That I call my soul--
He plants and prunes and hardens
Each rose with careful toil.

He bends those unseemly stems
Into a thorny crown
Until this mortal seed, in Him,
Dies...to bloom, forever born.