1 Thou sweet gliding Kedron, by thy silver streams
Our Saviour at midnight, when moonlight's pale beams
Shone bright on thy waters, would frequently stray,
And lose in thy murmurs the toils of the day.

2 How damp were the vapors that fell on His head!
How hard was His pillow, how humble His bed!
The angels, astonished, grew sad at the sight,
And followed their Master with solemn delight.

3 Oh, garden of Olives, thou dear, honored spot,
The fame of thy wonders shall ne'er be forgot;
The theme most transporting to seraphs above;
The triumph of sorrow--the triumph of love.

4 Come, saints, and adore Him; come, bow at His feet
Oh, give Him the glory, the praise that is meet;
Let joyful hosannas unceasing arise,
And join the full chorus that gladdens the skies.

Amen.