David once in great affliction Crossed the Kedron's narrow stream, While his foes without restriction Hatched their vile and cunning scheme. Darker far the shadows now Bend about the Savior's brow As He hastens to His passion For the sinful world's salvation. See Him, torn by woe appalling, Kneeling in the garden still, And upon His Father calling That, if possible, He will Take the bitter cup away. But how meekly He doth pray! What the Father shall Him offer, He obediently will suffer. See, what agony assails Him In that dark and fearful hour; Every friend deserts or fails Him; Satan strikes with all his power; And the flowers beneath Him grow Crimson with the purple flow From His anguished frame distilling As His cup of woe is filling. But, O flower, whose tender blossom Caught that precious, purple dew From the Saviour's riven bosom, In a blessed hour you grew! Eden's flowers did not bear Fruits that could with yours compare: By the blood your petals staining, I am now salvation gaining. When I like the flower must wither, When I wilt and fade like grass, When the hour of death draws hither, When I from this world shall pass, When my heart has ceased to beat When I face God's judgment seat, Then His blood, which stained the garden, Shall procure my lasting pardon. Kingo's hymns on the pericopes have proved less resistant to time than most of his other work. They are in reality brief commentaries, presenting a practical rather than a poetical exposition and application of their texts. But even so, the singular freshness of their thought and style has preserved many of them until our day. The following hymn on Matthew 8, 23-27, the stilling of the storm, furnishes a characteristic example of this group of hymns. What vessel is that passing Across the boundless deep, On which the billows massing In foaming fury sweep? She seems in sore distress As though she soon would founder Upon the shoals around her And sink without redress. It is the storm-tossed vessel Of God's own church on earth, With which the world doth wrestle, And send its fury forth, While Jesus oft appears As though He still were sleeping, With His disciples weeping And crying out in fears. But let the world with fury Against the church but rave, And spend its might to bury Her in the roaring wave! It only takes a word To hush the wild commotion And show the mighty ocean Her Lord is still aboard.