My eyes are flowers on your tomb
 And if I cannot eat my bread
 My fasts shall live like willows where you died
 If in the heat I find no water for my thirst
 My thirst shall turn to springs for you, poor traveler

 Come, in your labor find a resting place
 And in my sorrows lay your head
 Brother, take my life and bread
 And buy yourself a better bed
 Take my breath and take my death
 Buy yourself a better rest beneath the bells of Gethsemani

 When all the men of war are killed
 And flags have fallen into dust
 Your cross and mine will tell men still
 He died on each for both of us
 That we might become the brothers of God
 And learn to know the Christ of burnt men

 And the children are ringing the bells of Gethsemani

 For in the wreckage of your April Christ lies slain
 He weeps in the ruins of my spring
 The money of whose tears shall fall
 Into your weak and friendless hand
 And buy you back to your own land

 The silence of whose tears shall fall
 Like bells upon your alien tomb
 Hear them and come, they call you home
 And the children are ringing the bells of Gethsemani

 Yes, if they had been there
 They would have taken that crown of thorns from his hair
 And stayed for a while in that place of despair
 Ah, but what do I see, my brother is there
 And he's ringing the bells of Gethsemani