In the dusk of our sor­row­ful hours,
The time of our trou­ble and tears,
With frost at the heart of the flow­ers,
And blight on the bloom of the years,
Like mo­ther voice ten­der­ly hush­ing
The sound of the sob and the moan,
We hear, when the ang­uish is crush­ing,
He trod in the wine­press alone.

How sud­den so­e’er the dis­as­ter,
Or hea­vy the hand that may smite,
We’re yet in the grace of the Mas­ter,
We nev­er are out of His sight.
Though win­now­ing winds of temp­ta­tion
May forth from all quar­ters be blown,
We’re sure of the com­ing sal­va­tion,
The Lord will re­mem­ber His own.

Our Sav­ior sure knows to the ut­most
The pangs that the mor­tal can bear;
No mor­tal hath pain that the Mas­ter
Refuses to heal or to share.
And cries that as­cend to the Lov­ing,
Who bowed Him for us to atone,
Are hushed at the gen­tle re­prov­ing,
He trod in the wine­press alone.