by Jean Conder Soule

Ever since Gethsemane

Where Jesus walked His lonely way,

A garden's soft serenity

Has marked a special place to pray.

My garden knows no holiness;

The Master's footseps never trod

Along these paths, yet I confess

I've seen His mark upon the sod.

My garden takes on special grace

And I find love and lasting peace

Within the confines of this place

As golden summer days increase.

If I should pause to meditate

And offer prayers on bended knee,

Suddenly, by some strange fate,

My garden is Gethsemane!

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