"Oh, who is this that seeks at night
The ways of green Gethsemane?
Oh, who is this that prays at night,
Face to the ground, in agony?--
Sorrow of Sorrow, Grief of Grief,"
Uneasy whispered blade and leaf.
Sudden the Garden understood.
The grasses, on His garment's hem
Laid sighing lips--and even as blood
Were the great drops that fell on them:
The flowers all bowed their heads one way;
The wild things cared no more to play.
But those there were, of herb and tree,
Forbore to worship, murmuring thus:
"Naught but a suffering man we see,
And what is human grief to us?"...
He turned, the Holy and the Wise,
And looked on them with anguished eyes.
They trembled, stricken and aware,
The aspen and the quaking grass:
"All, all Creation's woe is there.
Master, forgive! Alas, alas!"
Too late. Moved by remorse for ever
The grasses shake, the aspens quiver.
