The eventide falls gently now, By Kedron’s side, o’er Olive’s brow, And through the gloom methinks I see A lonely form in prayer for me. The gentle tone through stately trees, Is borne upon the murm’ring breeze, He bowed His head—God’s only Son— And meekly said, “Thy will be done.”
Refrain: Thy will, Thy will, Thy will be done.
In fervent prayer for you and me He wrestled there in agony; With drops of sweat, of crimson hue, His brow was wet, as with the dew. In tears He knelt, with troubled soul, While there He felt death’s sorrows roll; Our sins He bore—the Holy One— And said once more, “Thy will be done.”
And then before His vision came The crown of thorns, the cruel shame, The scorn of those He sought to save, The reeking cross, the silent grave. “This bitter cup, O Lord, I pray, Before I sup take Thou away”— Yet answered still, as there He knelt, “Not as I will, but as thou wilt.”
Gethsemane! O sacred place! Once more I see my Savior’s face; It shines anew with glory now, And angels smooth His pallid brow. Oh, let me e’er this scene behold! Oh, let me hear the story told Of Him who there the vict’ry won, Who said in prayer, “Thy will be done!”
