The Garden called Gethsemane In Picardy it was, And there the people came to see The English soldiers pass. We used to pass – we used to pass Or halt, as it might be, And ship our masks in case of gas Beyond Gethsemane.
The Garden called Gethsemane, It held a pretty lass, But all the time she talked to me I prayed my cup might pass. The officer sat on the chair, The men lay on the grass, And all the time we halted there I prayed my cup might pass.
It didn’t pass – it didn’t pass It didn’t pass from me. I drank it when we met the gas Beyond Gethsemane.
I’m planning to start posting weekly Sunday devotionals now that I’m settling into retirement, but for now I’m sharing a poem by Salvation Army Officer Harry Read. He’s a remarkable Christian gentleman who I’ve already posted about here.
There is a silence wherein God is found, A quietness which is a source of grace, A love-filled solitude that has no bound Accessible from any hour and place.
It is that centre wherein God is known And love, sublimest love holds sway. We enter as we move towards his throne, We share its myst’ry as we bow to pray.
God folds us to himself with tenderness, He longs that of himself we should be part, Our hopes he fills with yearning’s gentle stress That we might share the feelings of his heart.
Within that most creative solitude, Our deepest, inward being is renewed.
…and have put on the new self, which is being renewed in knowledge in the image of its Creator.Colossians 3:10
Why I tie about thy wrist, Julia, this silken twist; For what other reason ’tis But to show thee how, in part, Thou my pretty captive art? But thy bond slave is my heart: ’tis but silk that bindeth thee, Knap the thread and thou art free; But ’tis otherwise with me: -I am bound and fast bound, so That from thee I cannot go; If I could, I would not so.