In My Own Gethsemane

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In my own Gethsemane
I too have sweat blood
all the while decrying
the taste of the bitter wine,
wishing I could pass the cup
to another but in so denying
Not my will, Lord, but Thine.

In this garden of suffering,
faithfulness is the offering,
a presence on whom I am relying,
when mortal flesh meets the divine.
These crooked beams are not mine to hold
alone and so say I, sighing,
Not my will, Lord, but Thine.

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