A LONE we kneel in our Gethsemane
And blame our brother that he watcheth not!
We crave not him but drain his sympathy,
All but our own fierce grief have we forgot.
We cry, “Canst thou not watch with us one hour?”
And, yet, aloof, we bow, a thing apart.
Grief-scarred, we have nor wish, nor will, nor power
To clasp our brother to our bleeding heart.
He who was closest may not reach the soul,
Shrouded and veiled, by anguish felled and slain;
How can he watch, unfainting, when the whole
That once was his responds to naught but pain?
We blame our brother, yet it is not he,
But our dead heart that makes Gethsemane!