The mists that hang o’er parting life,
All gather’d round his head;
And the Deliverer knelt to pray—
Yet pass’d it not, that cup, away!
It pass’d not—though the stormy wave
Had sunk beneath his tread;
It pass’d not—though to Him the grave
Had yielded up its dead.
But there was sent him from on High
A gift of strength for man to die.