“Behold, and see if there be any sorrow like unto
My sorrow.”—Lamentations 1:12.

Behold your King !  Though the moonlight steals
Through the silvery sprays of the olive tree,
No star-gemmed sceptre or crown it reveals,
In the solemn shade of Gethsemane.
Only a form of prostrate grief,
Fallen, crushed, like a broken leaf !
Oh, think of His sorrow ! that we may know
The depth of love in the depth of woe.

Behold your King !  Is it nothing to you,
That the crimson tokens of agony
From the kingly brow must fall like dew,
Through the shuddering shades of Gethsemane?
Jesus Himself, the Prince of Life,
Bows in mysterious mortal strife;
Oh, think of His sorrow ! that we may know
The unknown love in the unknown woe.

Behold your King, with His sorrow crowned,
Alone, alone in the valley is He !
The shadows of death are gathering round,
And the Cross must follow Gethsemane.
Darker and darker the gloom must fall,
Filled is the Cup, He must drink it all !
Oh, think of His sorrow ! that we may know
His wondrous love in His wondrous woe.

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