4 It passed not, though the stormy wave Had sunk beneath his tread; It passed not, though to him the grave Had yielded up its dead; But there was sent him, from on high, A gift of strength, for man to die.
5 And was his mortal hour beset With anguish and dismay? How may we meet our conflict yet In the dark, narrow way? How, but through him that path who trod: "Save, or we perish, Son of God."
Among the mountain trees, The winds were whispering low, And night's ten thousand harmonies Were harmonies of woe; A voice of grief was on the gale, It came from Cedron's gloomy vale.
2 It was the Saviour's prayer That on the silence broke, Imploring strength from heaven to bear The sin-avenging stroke, As in Gethsemane he knelt, And pangs unknown his bosom felt.
3 The fitful starlight shone In dim and misty gleams, Deep was his agonizing groan, And large the vital streams That trickled to the dewy sod, While Jesus raised his voice to God.
4 The chosen three that staid, Their nightly watch to keep, Left him through sorrows deep to wade, And gave themselves to sleep: Meekly and sad he prayed alone; Strangely forgotten by his own.
5 Along the streamlet's bank The reckless traitor came, And heavy on his bosom sank The load of guilt and shame; Yet unto them that waited nigh He gave the Lamb of God to die.
6 Among the mountain trees The winds were whispering low, And night's ten thousand harmonies Were harmonies of woe; For cruel voices filled the gale That came from Cedron's gloomy vale.
Thou sweet gliding Cedron, by thy silver stream Our Saviour would linger in moonlight's soft beam: And by thy bright waters till midnight would stay, And lose in thy murmurs the toils of the day. CHORUS. Come, saints, and adore him; come bow at his feet; O give him the glory, the praise that is meet; Let joyful hosannas unceasing arise, And join the full chorus that gladdens the skies.
2 How damp were the vapors that fell on his head, How hard was his pillow, how humble his bed; The angels beholding, amazed at the sight, Attended their Master with solemn delight.
3 O garden of Olives! thou dear honored spot, The fame of thy wonders shall ne'er be forgot; The theme most transporting to seraphs above, The triumph of sorrow, the triumph of love!