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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