1 Jesus, bow'd down by mighty woe,
Unfelt, unknown, to all below,
Except the Son of God;
In agonistic pangs of soul,
Drinks deep from wormwood's bitt'rest bowl,
And sweats great drops of blood.

2 See, his disciples slumb'ring round;
Nor pitying friend on earth is found;
He treads the press alone:
In vain to Heav'n he turns his eyes;
No pardon waits him from the skies;
His death it must atone.

3 "O Father hear! this cup remove—
Save thou the darling of thy love,
(The prostrate victim said)
Yet not my will, but thine be done,
Should that exted, to count thy Son,
Amid the sleeping dead."

4 His earnest prayers, his deep'ning groans,
Were heard before angelic thrones;
Amazement wrapt the sky.
"Go strengthen Christ," Jehovah said;
Th' astonish'd Seraph bow'd his head,
And left the realms on high.

5 Made strong in strength rene'd from heav'n,
Jesus receives the cup as giv'n;
Submiss, resign'd in all,
He drink;—nor leaves a dreg behind;
And bears away from human kind,
The wormwood mix'd with gall.