Gethsemane

Pursing his traitor lips he onward went,
The Apostle, with those harsh official men —
All on one cruel baleful thought intent,
To hunt the Lamb up from His sheltering glen,
O cruel conclave! where those murderers met;
O vile night-market! where our Lord was sold
Among the sad gray olives, in His sweat,
Just risen from that awful prayer; behold!
They lead Him forth, the Victim long foretold
To climb, like Isaac, up the fated hill:
And so God wrought Redemption — fold in fold
With hate and guile He wrapt His holy will,
Yet left that will still holy — nor approved
The sin He work'd with, nor its curse removed