Among the mountain trees,

The winds were whispering low,

And night’s ten thousand harmonies

Were harmonies of woe;

A voice of grief was on the gale,

It came from Cedron’s gloomy vale.

2 It was the Saviour’s prayer

That on the silence broke,

Imploring strength from heaven to bear

The sin-avenging stroke,

As in Gethsemane he knelt,

And pangs unknown his bosom felt.

3 The fitful starlight shone

In dim and misty gleams,

Deep was his agonizing groan,

And large the vital streams

That trickled to the dewy sod,

While Jesus raised his voice to God.

4 The chosen three that staid,

Their 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.

5 Along the streamlet’s bank

The reckless traitor came,

And heavy on his bosom sank

The load of guilt and shame;

Yet unto them that waited nigh

He gave the Lamb of God to die.

6 Among the mountain trees

The winds were whispering low,

And night’s ten thousand harmonies

Were harmonies of woe;

For cruel voices filled the gale

That came from Cedron’s gloomy vale.