’Tis mid­night, and on Ol­ive’s brow
The star is dimmed that late­ly shone;
’Tis mid­night, in the gar­den now
The suf­fer­ing Sav­ior prays alone.

’Tis mid­night, and from all re­moved
Emmanuel wrest­les lone with fears
E’en the dis­ci­ple whom 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 who hath in ang­uish knelt
Is not for­sak­en by His God.

’Tis mid­night, and from eth­er plains
Is borne the song that an­gels know;
Unheard by mor­tals are the strains
That sweet­ly soothe the Sav­ior’s woe.