At Midnight

I write Your Name with capital letter, And bow my brow in prayer's endeavor... Yet would I support with supplication Your struggle in Gethsemane's tribulation? And would I hear beyond the Cedron's flow Your voice of anguish, trembling low, Among the closest ones—would I confess My name among the chosen three's distress? Would I sleep in darkness all around, While You knelt near that fateful ground— At that place where upon Your knees You stood for me until death's decrees? I'll not complain with empty boast, Or crown myself as worthless ghost. For am I so defenseless, torn, To bear all human pain in worn And weary prayer at break of day? I'll kneel beside the stone where lay The blood-soaked sweat that split the ground. If I but knew Who gave me life's sweet sound— I'd reach much higher in my prayer's flight! If rust of vain existence hadn't quite Corroded my heart with worldly grime, Would I not leave that mountain's climb, Where victory's foundation stands sublime? If northern winds with sins have swept Your soul into a slumber deep, Cross Cedron at the midnight hour And melt the snows with prayer's power!