Into the woods my mas­ter went,
Clean for­spent, for­spent,
Into the woods my mas­ter came,
Forspent with love and shame.
But the ol­ives they were not blind to Him.
The lit­tle grey leaves were kind to Him,
The thorn tree had a mind to Him,
When in­to the woods He came.

Out of the woods my mas­ter came
And He was well con­tent;
Out of the woods my mas­ter came,
Content with death and shame.
When death and shame would woo Him last,
From un­der the trees they drew Him last,
’Twas on a tree they slew Him—last
When out of the woods He came.