Poem by Janet Hamilton

The Garden of God

In a vineyard where grape-laden boughs
To the trellised wall heavily cling,
Where the voice of the turtle is heard,
And the song bird ne'er ceases to sing.
The dark purple clusters I pressed,
And drank of the soul-cheering wine,
To the voice of the turtle replied,
And the song on my lips was Divine.

In a garden of spices I walked,
Inhaling the sacred perfume,
'Mongst beds of white lilies I strayed,
And roses perennial in bloom.
In the apple trees' shadow I sat,
How great was my love and delight,
How pleasant the fruit to my taste,
How mellow and golden to sight.

On a mount of green olives I stood,
Where oft my Beloved had been,
And poured out His spirit to God
By all but the angels unseen.
What holy communings and high
Were there between Father and Son,
As the words ever came from His lips-
My Father, thy will shall be done.

Gethsemane, garden of woe,
'Twas low on thy blood-sprinkled sod
My Beloved in His agony lay,
And prayed to His Father, His God.
Of darkness the hour and the power
Had come, He was sold and betrayed;
They bound Him and led Him away
Through the green olives' deepening shade.

Come now to Golgotha, oh come!
No vineyard, no garden in bloom,
'Tis only 'the place of a skull'
Where criminals suffer their doom.
The fruits that have grown on the tree
That stood in that garden of death,
Have life and salvation bestowed
On perishing millions beneath.

Would'st know of the vineyard of wine,
The garden of spice and perfume,
The mount where the green olives grow,
The garden of woe and of doom.
A Christian thou and not know
Thou oft must have travelled the road,
And looked at the place where they stand-
The Bible, the garden of God. 

1. Lines on the Trial of Madeline Smith for the Murder of L'Angelier
2. Garibaldi
3. A Lay of the Tambour Frame
4. Address to Col. D. C. R. Carrick-Buchanan of Drumpellier
5. The Civil War in America

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