Down in the Garden
Hushed by the shadows dark and drear,
The feathered songsters rest;
All earth in slumber doth appear,
But Christ, earthís heavínly Guest.
Down in the garden hear the mournful sound,
There in the darkness on the dewy ground,
While the watchers they were sleeping,
Was Jesus praying, weeping,
Was Jesus praying, weeping.
With natureís mantle, nightís dark pall,
Beneath those garden trees,
He wrestled nobly for us all,
From sin, man to release.
Sinís loathsome weight He bore in sweat,
That oozed in bloody flow;
Ignoble shame was His, and yet
He meekly suffered so.
For sinful mortals, rich and poor,
He fought hellís legions fierce;
Abased, He won the victíry sure,
Though pangs His soul did pierce.