He Trod Alone

In the dusk of our 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 mo­ther voice ten­der­ly hush­ing

The sound of the sob and the moan

We hear

when the ang­uish is crush­ing

He trod in the wine­press alone.

How sud­den so­e’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.

Though win­now­ing winds of temp­ta­tion

May forth from all quar­ters be blown

We’re sure of the com­ing sal­va­tion

The Lord will re­mem­ber His own.

Our Sav­ior sure knows to the ut­most

The pangs that the mor­tal can bear;

No mor­tal hath pain that the Mas­ter

Refuses to heal or to share.

And cries that as­cend to the Lov­ing

Who bowed Him for us to atone

Are hushed at the gen­tle re­prov­ing

He trod in the wine­press alone.