# Zinzendorff and Other Poems/The Garden

THE GARDEN.
"Gardens have been the scenes of the three most stupendous events that have occurred on earth:—the temptation and fall of man—the agony of the Son of God—and his resurrection from the grave" Notes of the American Editor of "Kebb's Christian Year."
Is't not a holy place, thy Garden's bound,
Peopled with plants and every living leaf
Instinct with thought, to stir the musing mind?
—Where was it that our Mother wandering went,
When 'mid her nursling vines and flowers, she met
The gliding serpent, in his green and gold,
And rashly listened to his glozing tongue,
Till loss of Eden and the wrath of God
Did fade from her remembrance? Was it not
A garden, where this deed of rashness check'd
The stainless blossom of a world unborn? —Still, tread with trembling. Hast thou nought to fear?
No tempter in thy path, with power to sow
Thy Paradise with thorns, if God permit?
So, hold thy way amid the sweets of earth
With cautious step, and have thy trust above?
—Is't not a holy place, thy Garden's bound,
When at the cool close of the summer's day
Thou lingerest there, indulging sweet discourse
With lips belov'd? Then speak of him who bare
Upon his tortur'd brow, strange dews of blood
For man's redemption.
 Bring the thrilling scene
Home to thine inmost soul:—the sufferer's cry,
"Father! if it be possible, this cup
Take thou away.—Yet not my will but thine:"
The sleeping friends who could not watch one hour,
The torch, the flashing sword, the traitor's kiss,
The astonish'd angel with the tear of Heaven
Upon his cheek, still striving to assuage
Those fearful pangs that bow'd the Son of God
Like a bruis'd reed. Thou who hast power to look
Thus at Gethsemane, be still! be still!
What are thine insect-woes compar'd to his
Who agonizeth there? Count thy brief pains
As the dust-atom on life's chariot wheels,
And in a Saviour's grief forget them all.
—Is't not a holy place, thy Garden's bound?
"Look to the Sepulchre!" said they of Rome,
"And set a seal upon it." So, the guard
Who knew that sleep was death, stood with fix'd eye
Watching the garden-tomb, which proudly hid
The body of the crucified.
 Whose steps
'Mid the ill-stifled sob of woman's grief
Prevent the dawn? Yet have they come too late,
For He is risen,—He hath burst the tomb,
Whom 'twas not possible for Death to hold.
Yea, his pierc'd hand did cleave the heavens, to share
That resurrection, which the "slow of heart"
Shrank to believe.
 Fain would I, on this spot,
So holy, ponder, till the skies grow dark,
And sombre evening spreads her deepest pall.
—Come to my heart, thou Wisdom that dost grow
In the chill coffin of the shrouded dead,
Come to my heart. For silver hairs may spring
Thick o'er the temples, yet the soul fall short
Even of that simple rudiment, which dwells
With babes in Christ. I would be taught of thee,
Severe Instructor, who dost make thy page
Of pulseless breasts and unimpassion'd brows,
And lips that yield no sound. Thou who dost wake
Man for that lesson, which he reads but once,
And mak'st thy record of the sullen mounds
That mar the church-yard's smoothness, let me glean
Wisdom among the tombs, for I would learn
Thy deep, unflattering lore. What have I said?
No! not of thee, but of the hand that pluck'd
The sceptre from thee.
 Thou, who once didst taste
Of all man's sorrows, save the guilt of sin,—
Divine Redeemer! teach us so to walk
In these our earthly gardens, as to gain
Footing at last, amid the trees of God,
Which by the Eternal River from His Throne
Nourish'd, shall never fade.