Classic Poem

Where climbs thy steep, fair Olivet,
There is a spot most dear to me:
The spot with tears of sorrow wet,
When Jesus knelt in agony.

I love in thought to linger there,
To tread the hallowed ground alone,
Where, on the silent midnight air,
Rose heavenward, Lord, thy plaintive moan.

I fondly seek the olive shade
That veiled thee when thy soul was wrung;
When angels came to bring thee aid,
That oft to thee their harps had strung!

There, on the sacred turf, I kneel,
And breathe my heart's deep love to thee,
While tender memories o'er me steal,
Of all thou did'st endure for me.

O mystery of anguish, when
The sinless felt sin's heavy woe!
Hell madly dreamed of triumph then,
While thy dear head was bending low.

Vain dream! No grief shall evermore
Stain, as with bloody sweat, thy brow;
Robed in all glory — thine before —
The seraphim, surround thee now.

Yet, Lord, from off the burning throne,
Above yon stars that softly gleam,
Thou com'st to meet me here alone,
By Kedron's old familiar stream.