This bitter cup,Let it pass from me.
Jesus, my sorrowing Jesus,The sweat like drops of blood upon his brow,Talking with his Father,While the three disciples slept,Saying: Father,Oh, Father,Not as I will,Not as I will,But let thy will be done.
Oh, look at black-hearted Judas—Sneaking through the dark of the Garden—Leading his crucifying mob.Oh, God!Strike him down!Why don't you strike him down,Before he plants his traitor's kissUpon my Jesus' cheek?
And they take my blameless Jesus,And they drag him to the Governor,To the mighty Roman Governor.Great Pilate seated in his hall—Great Pilate on his judgment seat,Said: In this man I find no fault.I find no fault in him.And Pilate washed his hands.
[40]
