The Tiger-Lily

At night in black Gethsemane

Our Lord was praying there.

The flowers all bowed their heads and wept,

His grief they fain would share.

Alone there stood in robes of gold

The tiger-lily vain.

No teardrops would this flower shed

For her dear master's pain.

At dawn in grey Gethsemane

Our Lord was at the gate;

His gaze fell on this lily cold,

Then turned to meet His fate.

In dew dissolved the flower's pride

And ever down the years

Within her petals still abide

Her own immortal tears.