Yea, come into the garden, Oh! my soul!
The hour is dark, the midnight beckons thee;
Through sighing olives, wringing their soft hands,
The message comes, my soul, to thee and me.

Yea, come into the garden, Oh! my soul!
The flesh is weary and the cheek is wet,—
Yea, come,—there shines the same star white and clear,
That rests, unsleeping, over Olivet.

What though the way is hard, and on thy woe
The storm and flash of human vengeance burst,—
Yea, come into the garden, Oh! my soul!
For thee, the gentle Jesus sought it first.