Where can I turn for peace, where is my solace when other sources cease to make me whole? When, with a wounded heart, anger, or malice, I draw myself apart, searching my soul? Where, when my aching grows, where when I languish, Where, in my need to know, where can I run? Where is the quiet hand to calm my anguish? Who, who can understand? He, only one. He answers privately, reaches my reaching, In my Gethsemane, Savior and Friend. Gentle the peace he finds for my beseeching. Constant he is and kind love without end.
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