My soul knew Gethsemane's sorrow:
My son, grown to manhood, was killed.
My song and my laughter were silenced;
I wept for his dreams unfulfilled.
Then I entered my beautiful garden
And knelt by a lily to pray,
And the infinite peace of the Master
Drove bitter despairing away;
For the Lily had lived through the winter,
Not dead but hidden from view--
The Master speaks in a garden,
My son was living, I knew.
