GETHSEMANE

GETHSEMANE

By Edmund Leamy

Breathes there a man who claimeth notOne lonely spot,His own Gethsemane,Whither with his inmost painHe fainWould weary plod,Find the surcease that is knownIn wind a-moanAnd sobbing sea,Cry his sorrow hid of men,And then—Touch hands with God.

Breathes there a man who claimeth notOne lonely spot,His own Gethsemane,Whither with his inmost painHe fainWould weary plod,Find the surcease that is knownIn wind a-moanAnd sobbing sea,Cry his sorrow hid of men,And then—Touch hands with God.

Breathes there a man who claimeth notOne lonely spot,His own Gethsemane,Whither with his inmost painHe fainWould weary plod,Find the surcease that is knownIn wind a-moanAnd sobbing sea,Cry his sorrow hid of men,And then—Touch hands with God.

Breathes there a man who claimeth not

One lonely spot,

His own Gethsemane,

Whither with his inmost pain

He fain

Would weary plod,

Find the surcease that is known

In wind a-moan

And sobbing sea,

Cry his sorrow hid of men,

And then—

Touch hands with God.

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