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.