Gethsemane to Glory

In a garden, long ago,

My savior bowed to pray.

He thought there of the coming woe,

That would He feel that day.

He knew stripes the whips would score,

He knew their evil teeth,

He knew that His great, flaming sword,

Would stay within its sheath.

He knew the spit they’d spare for Him,

As He would lift His cross.

He knew that nails would pierce his limbs,

And all the pain this caused.

He knew His heart would halt its beat.

He’d die a death for thieves.

And then the wrath of God He’d meet,

This man, the Prince of Peace.

He’d know the cold of the abyss,

He’d hear the soldier say,

“Surely the son of God was this,

Whom murdered we this day.”

And knowing that all this would fare,

He still allowed the pain.

Blood in His sweat He sheddeth there,

And all of this ordained.

He asked of God that it would pass,

But prayed the Father’s will,

So drank He from that wrathful glass,

And not a drop was spilled.

That awful death that died my Prince,

The man from virgin’s womb,

Has thus been conquered ever since,

He walked from out that tomb.

And he mocks Death whose sting was lost,

Whose keys are in His hand.

For victory was in the cross,

That Satan wished Him damned.