Among the mountain trees

Among the mountain treesThe winds were whispering low,And night's ten thousand harmoniesWere harmonies of woe;A voice of grief was on the gale,It came from Kedron's gloomy vale.

It was the Saviour's prayerThat on the silence broke,Imploring strength from heaven to bearThe sin-avenging stroke;As in Gethsemane he knelt,And pangs unknown his bosom felt.

The fitful starlight shoneIn dim and misty gleams;Deep was his agonizing groan,And large the vital streamsWhich trickled to the dewy sod,While Jesus raised his voice to God.

The chosen three that staidTheir nightly watch to keep,Left him through sorrows deep to wade,And gave themselves to sleep;Meekly and sad he prayed alone,Strangely forgotten by his own.

Along the streamlet's bankThe reckless traitor came,And heavy on his bosom sankThe load of guilt and shame;Yet unto those who waited nigh,He gave the Lamb of God to die!

Among the mountain treesThe winds were whispering low,And night's ten thousand harmoniesWere harmonies of woe;For cruel voices filled the galeThat came from Kedron's gloomy vale.