Thou sweet gliding Kedron, by thy silver stream
Our Savior at midnight, when moonlight's pale beam
Shone bright on thy waters, would frequently stray,
And lose in thy murmurs the toils of the day.
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.
O garden of Olivet, dear honored spot!
The fame of thy wonder shall ne'er be forgot;
The theme most transporting to seraphs above,
The triumph of sorrow, the triumph of love.
Come, saints and adore him; come, bow at his feet!
Oh, give him the glory, the praise that is meet;
Let joyful hosannas unceasingly rise,
And join the full chorus that gladdens the skies.