Alone Thou Troddest The Winepress, And Alone
Through The Dark Valley Went Thy Toil-Worn Feet,
Betrayed, Denied, Deserted By Thine Own,
The Agony, The Shame, The Death To Meet

Alone, Yet Not Alone; Even On The Tree,
Whence, ‘Mid The Darkness, Rang The Awful Cry,
“Why, O My God, Hast Thou Forsaken Me?”
Thy God Was There, Thy Father Very Nigh.

O Lord Of Life, When Heavily Doth Press
The Load Which Each Of Us, Alone, Must Bear;
When ‘Midst The Crowd Our Utter Loneliness
Drifts On The Soul The Shadow Of Despair;

When Friendship Fails, The Nearest Earthly Love
Knows Little Of Our Heart’s Deep Bitterness;
When All Seems Dark, Within, Around, Above,
And Satan Whispers, “Ye Are Comfortless;”

And In The Last, The Loneliest, Hour Of Life,
When Past And Future Whelm The Soul In Fear;
Grant Us In Thee, Amid, Above, The Strife,
Our Father’s Arms To Feel, His Voice To Hear.