A voice upon the mid­night air,
Where Ked­ron’s moon­lit wa­ters stray,
Weeps forth in ago­ny of pray­er,
O Fa­ther, take this cup away.

Ah! Thou who sor­row­est unto death,
We con­quer in Thy mor­tal fray;
And earth for all her child­ren saith,
O God, take not this cup away.

O Lord of sor­row, meek­ly die:
Thou’lt heal or hal­low all our woe;
Thy name re­fresh the mourn­er’s sigh,
Thy peace re­vive the faint and low.

Great chief of faith­ful souls, arise,
None else can lead the mar­tyr band,
Who teach the brave how per­il flies,
When faith, un­armed, up­lifts the hand.

O king of earth, the cross as­cend;
O’er climes and ag­es ’tis Thy throne;
Where’er Thy fad­ing eye may bend,
The des­ert blooms, and is Thine own.

Thy part­ing bless­ing, Lord, we pray;
Make but one fold, be­low, above;
And when we go the last lone way,
O give the we­lcome of Thy love.