Immanuel, sunk with dread­ful woe,
Unfelt, un­known to all be­low—
Except the Son of God—
In ago­niz­ing pangs of soul,
Drinks deep from worm­wood’s bit­ter­est bowl,
And sweats great drops of blood.

See His dis­ci­ples slum­ber­ing round,
Nor pi­ty­ing friend on earth is found!
He treads the press alone:
In vain to Heav’n He turns His eyes,
The curse awaits Him from the skies—
His death it must atone.

O Fa­ther, hear! this cup re­move!
Save Thou the dar­ling of Thy love
(The pros­trate vic­tim cries)
From ov­er­whelm­ing fear and dread!
Tho’ He must min­gle with the dead—
His peo­ple’s sac­ri­fice.

His ear­nest pray­ers, His deep­en­ing groans,
Were heard be­fore an­gel­ic thrones;
Amazement wrapped the sky;
Go strength­en Christ! the Fa­ther said:
Th’as­ton­ished se­raph bowed his head,
And left the realms on high.

Made strong in strength, re­newed from Heav’n,
Jesus re­ceives the cup as giv’n,
And, per­fect­ly re­signed,
He drinks the worm­wood mixed with gall,
Sustains the curse—re­moves it all—
Nor leaves a dreg be­hind.