The gloomy garden, blood bedewed,
The hideous midnight’s shame and scorn,
The scourge, the wreath of rending thorn,
The tortures of the dreadful Road.
These were the billows of thy death,
The storm-toss’d surface; but the cry,
The spirit’s woe, SABATHANI,
Rose from the ocean underneath.
Man has no line that sea to sound,
The abyss of night—whose gulphs within
Now lies thy people’s weight of sin,
Forgotten, never to be found.—Dr. Moule.