Thy will, not mine, be done—
here was essential prayer
wherein clear Christ awareness
filled with light the garden of despair.
Here too the sweat of self-denial
stilled with blood the urgent plea:
"Remove this cup from me."
But why? What purpose, such humility?
God's will, he said—but could this be
that he who reached the height of good
should die in monstrous agony?
Not so. The angel-Christ appeared
as might revealed; it stayed the human plea,
roused apathy, and healed the wound of strife.
If this must be the road we walk—
if morning lies beyond Gethsemane—
God grant me this sword-song of prayer
to rip self-pity with humility.
Let Thy will—Thy pure angel strength—
cleave through the protests of mortality;
then shall Thy will be mine, eternally.
