Dark was the night, and cold the ground
On which the Lord was laid;
His sweat, like drops of blood ran down;
In ago­ny He prayed:

Fa­ther, re­move this bit­ter cup,
If such Thy sac­red will;
If not, con­tent to drink it up,
Thy plea­sure I ful­fill.

Go to the gar­den, sin­ner; see
Those pre­cious drops that flow,
The hea­vy load He bore for thee—
For thee He lies so low.

Then learn of Him the cross to bear;
Thy Fa­ther’s will ob­ey;
And when temp­ta­tions press thee near,
Awake to watch and pray.