He had passed the cup of the wine of love
In the feast of the Upper Room;
He had gone, with the paschal moon above,
To the depths of the Garden gloom.
And there on the solemn shaded ground
Where the ancient olives grow,
Another goblet the Saviour found,
The cup of the deepest woe.
The wine of that goblet was black as death.
And bitter with ancient sin.
And horribly foul was the fetid breath
Of the liquor that fumed within.
And they who had drunk in the city of light
As the cup of love He poured,
Stupidly slept in the Garden's night,
Nor thought of their anguished Lord.
O Saviour, who givest our human race
The cup of Thy love so rare,
In Gethsemane's shadow be ours the grace
The cup of Thy woe to share!
