‘Tis midnight; and on Olive’s brow
the star is dimmed that lately shone:
’tis midnight; in the garden now
the suff’ring Savior prays alone.
‘Tis midnight; and, from all removed,
Emmanuel wrestles lone with fears:
e’en the disciple that he loved
heeds not his Master’s grief and tears.
‘Tis midnight; and, for others’ guilt,
the Man of Sorrows weeps in blood:
yet he that hath in anguish knelt
is not forsaken by his God.
‘Tis midnight; from the heav’nly plains
is borne the song that angels know:
unheard by mortals are the strains
that sweetly soothe the Savior’s woe.