The glory of the kingdom spread
Over the Tabor’s lofty head,
Lighting the mountain steeps;
And Jesus’ robes were glistering white,
His face —the Sun in all its might,
‘Tis night, and in Gethsemane
A prostrate Form in agony,
With bitter crying, weeps;
The darkness deepens at His groan
(The darkest night this world hath known),
And—Peter sleeps!
He lies upon the dungeon floor,
A guard, quadrupled round the door,
Its midnight vigil keeps;
Two chains of iron bind him fast;
Tomorrow’s morn shall be his last:
And—Peter sleeps!
E. L. B.