Night, with eb­on pin­ion, brood­ed o’er the vale;
All around was si­lent, save the night wind’s wail,
When Christ, the Man of Sor­rows,
In tears, and sweat, and blood,
Prostrate in the gar­den, raised His voice to God.

Smitten for of­fens­es which were not His own,
He, for our trans­gress­ions, had to weep alone;
No friend with words to com­fort,
Nor hand to help was there,
When the Meek and Low­ly hum­bly bowed in pray­er.

Abba, Fa­ther, Fa­ther, if in­deed it may,
Let this cup of ang­uish pass from Me, I pray;
Yet, if it must be suf­fered, by Me, Thine on­ly Son,
Abba, Fa­ther, Fa­ther, let Thy will be done.