'And when they had sung a hymn, they went out into the Mount of Olives.'
-Matth. xxvi. 30.
The winds are hushed;-the peaceful moon
Looks down on Zion's hill;
The city sleeps; 't is night's calm noon;
And all the streets are still.
Save when, along the shaded walks,
We hear the watchman's call,
Or the guard's footstep, as he stalks
In moonlight on the wall.
How soft, how holy, is this light!
And hark! a mournful song,
As gentle as these dews of night,
Floats on the air along.
Affection's wish, devotion's prayer,
Are in that holy strain;
'T is resignation,-not despair;
'T is triumph,-though 't is pain.
'T is Jesus and his faithful few,
That pour that hymn of love;
O God! may we the song renew
Around thy board above.