Classic Poem

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

'Tis midnight—and, from all removed,
Immanuel wrestles, lone with fears;
E'en the disciple that He loved
Heeds not his Master's grief and tears.

'Tis midnight—and for other's 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 Saviour's woe.