Christ in the Garden. Matt. 26. 36-46
J. Hart L.M.
Come hither, ye that fain would know
The exceeding sinfulness of sin;
Come see a scene of matchless woe,
And tell me what it all can mean.
Behold the darling Son of God
Bowed down with horror to the ground,
Wrung at the heart, and sweating blood,
His eyes in tears of sorrow drowned!
See how the Victim panting lies,
His soul with bitter anguish pressed;
He sighs, he faints, he groans, he cries,
Dismayed, dejected, shocked, distressed.
What pangs are these that tear his heart?
What burden’s this that’s on him laid?
What means this agony of smart?
What makes our Maker hang his head?
’Tis Justice, with its iron rod,
Inflicting strokes of wrath divine;
’Tis the avenging hand of God,
Incensed at all your sins and mine.
Deep in his breast our names were cut;
He undertook our desperate debt;
Such loads of guilt were on him put,
He could but just sustain the weight.
Then let us not ourselves deceive;
For, while of sin we lightly deem,
Whatever notions we may have,
Indeed we are not much like him.