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Jesus at Gethsemane

Father, would you hide me
in the thistle and thorn
in the hole of the worm
in stalks of the corn
Take away this cup
for which I was born
Nevertheless, not by my will, but thy will be done

The creepers are creeping
and the searchers are bold
The traitor is trading
and wanting of gold,
to make me the fodder
of sheep in their fold
Not by my will, but thy will be done

Father, I am the marl,
of its erosion, torn
I'm darkened and riddled
on a trail of scorn
A path of foreboding
and of treading, worn
Nevertheless, not by my will, but thy will be done

Their alarmists' alarm
at their issue of pride
in their houses of white
sepulchers, allied
Forging gold into lead
To divorce the bride
Not by my will, but thy will be done

Father, would you find me!
I'm lost in the wanting
and the circular path
of fear's dread taunting
Leaving of me alone
within its haunting
Nevertheless, not by my will, but thy will be done

The comers are coming
and strong bulls of Bashan
The dogs have compassed me
about in their plan
In this garden of sorrow
and tears overran
Not by my will, but thy will be done

Father, it has started
the kisser has arrived
Through your love everlasting
the lost and deprived
will receive redemption
Their estrangement knived
Evermore; not by my will,
but thy will be done

Learn more about this author, Allyn Smith.
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