Rudyard Kipling’s son was killed in World War I. Afterwards, Kipling wrote the poem Gethsemane. This poem has become deeply meaningful to me. It has enhanced and deepened my understanding of what Our Lord suffered at His Gethsemane more than any sermon or homily I have ever heard.
There are many Gethsemanes in our lives. One of the hardest is when we face our own death. But I think for any parent by far the deepest and darkest Gethsemane is not facing their own death, but losing a child. Without the hope of Christ, we would have no answers, no means of facing that ultimate horror.
Gethsemane
by Rudyard Kipling
1914-1918
The Garden called GethsemaneIn Picardy it was,And there the people came to seeThe English soldiers pass.We used to pass—we used to passOr halt, as it might be,And ship our masks in case of gasBeyond Gethsemane.The Garden called Gethsemane,It held a pretty lass,But all the time she talked to meI prayed my cup might pass.The officer sat on the chair,The men lay on the grass,And all the time we halted thereI prayed my cup might pass.It didn’t pass—it didn’t pass-It didn’t pass from me.I drank it when we met the gasBeyond Gethsemane!
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