In the dusk of the sorrowful hours,
The time of our trouble and tears,
With frost at the heart of the flowers,
And blight on the bloom of the years.
Like the mother voice tenderly hushing,
The sound of the sob and the moan;
We hear, when the anguish is crushing,
"He trod the winepress alone."
And therefore He knows to the utmost,
The pangs that a mortal can bear;
No mortal has pain that the Master
Refuses to heal or to share.
And the cries that ascend to the Loving,
Who bruised Him for us to atone;
Are hushed at the gentle reproving,
"He trod the winepress alone."
How sudden so e'er the disaster,
Or heavy the hand that may smite;
We're yet in the grace of the Master,
We never are out of His sight.
Tho' the winnowing winds of temptation,
May forth from all quarters be blown;
We're sure of the coming salvation,
The Lord will remember His own.
From Him, in the night of His trial,
Both heaven and earth fled away;
His boldest had only denial,
His dearest had only dismay.
With a cloud o'er the face of the Father,
He entered the anguish unknown;
But we, tho' our sorrows may gather,
Shall never endure them alone.