rials of her early life, and they reveal the source
of the patient endurance of fifteen years of isolation and suffering.

PASSION WEEK.[9]

I.

IN THE GARDEN.

Whene'er again thou sinkest,
My heart, beneath thy load,
Or from the battle shrinkest,
And murmurest at thy God;
Then will I lead thee hither,
To watch thy Saviour's prayer,
And learn from His endurance
How thou shouldst also bear.

Oh come, wouldst thou be like Him,
Thy Lord Divine, and mark
What sharpest sorrows strike Him,
What anguish deep and dark,--
That earnest cry to spare Him,
The trial scarce begun?
Yet still He saith: "My Father,
Thy will, not mine, be done!"

Oh wherefore doth His spirit
Such bitter conflict know?
What sins, what crimes could merit
Such deep and awful woe?
So pure are not the heavens,
So clear the noonday sun,
And yet He saith: "My Father,
Thy will, not mine, be done!"

Oh mark that night of sorrow,
That agony of prayer;
No friend can watch till morrow
His grief to soothe and share;
Oh where shall He find comfort?
With God, with God alone,
And still He saith: "My Father,
Thy will, not mine, be done!"

Hath life for Him no gladness,
No joy the light of day?
Can He then feel no sadness,
When heart and hope give way?
That cup of mortal anguish
One bitter cry hath won,
That it might pass: "Yet, Father,
Thy will, not mine, be done!"

And who the cup prepared Him,
And who the poison gave?
'Twas one He loved ensnared Him,
'Twas those He came to save.
Oh sharpest pain, to suffer
Betray'd and mock'd--alone;
Yet still He saith: "My Father,
Thy will, not mine, be done!"

But what is joy or living,
What treachery or death,
When all His work, His striving,
Seems hanging on His breath?
Oh can it stand without Him,
That work but just begun?
Yet still He saith: "My Father,
Thy will, not mine, be done!"

He speaks; no more He shrinketh,
Himself He offers up;
He sees it all, yet drinketh
For us that bitter cup,
He goes to meet the traitor,
The cross He will not shun,--
He saith: "I come, My Father,