Over Ked­ron Je­sus tread­eth
To His pass­ion for us all;
Every hu­man eye be weep­ing,
Tears of bit­ter grief let fall!
Round His spir­it flock the foes,
Place their shafts and bend their bows,
Aiming at the Sav­ior sole­ly,
While the world for­sakes Him whol­ly.

David once, with heart af­flict­ed,
Crossed the Ked­ron’s nar­row strand,
Clouds of gloom and grief about him
When an ex­ile from his land.
But, oh Je­sus! black­er now
Bends the cloud ab­ove Thy brow,
Hasting to death’s drea­ry por­tals
For the shame and sin of mor­tals.

See how, ang­uish-struck, He fall­eth
Prostrate, and with strug­gling breath,
Three times on His God He call­eth,
Praying that the bit­ter death
And the cup of doom may go,
Still He cries, in all His woe:
Not My will, but Thine, O Father,
And the an­gels round Him ga­ther.

See how, in that hour of dar­kness,
Battling with the ev­il pow­er,
Agonies un­told as­sail Him,
On His soul the ar­rows show­er;
All the gar­den flow­ers are wet
With the drops of bloody sweat,
From His ang­uished frame dis­till­ing—
World’s re­demp­tion thus ful­fill­ing!

But, O flow’rs, so sad­ly wa­tered
By this pure and pre­cious dew,
In some bless­èd hour your bloss­oms
’Neath the ol­ive-sha­dows grew!
Eden’s gar­den did not bear
Aught that can with you com­pare,
For the blood thus sprinkl­ed o’er ye
Makes my soul the heir of glo­ry.

When as flow’rs them­selves I wi­ther,
When I droop and fade like grass,
When the life-streams through my puls­es
Dull and ev­er dull­er pass,
When at last they cease to roll,
Then, to cheer my sing­ing soul,
Grace of Jesus, be Thou giv­en—
Source of tri­umph! Pledge of Heav­en!