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Alone thou trodd’st the winepress 
Alone thou trodd'st the winepress, and alone through the dark valley went thy toil-worn feet, betrayed, denied, deserted by thine own, the agony, the shame, the death to meet 
Alone, yet not alone; even on the tree, whence, 'mid the darkness, rang the awful cry, "Why, O my God, hast thou forsaken me?" Thy God was there, thy Father very nigh. 
O Lord of life, when heavily doth press the load which each of us, alone, must bear; when 'midst the crowd our utter loneliness drifts on the soul the shadow of despair; 
When friendship fails, the nearest earthly love knows little of our heart's deep bitterness; when all seems dark, within, around, above, and Satan whispers, "Ye are comfortless;" 
And in the last, the loneliest, hour of life, when past and future whelm the soul in fear; grant us in thee, amid, above, the strife, our Father's arms to feel, his voice to hear. 
Henry Arthur Martin (1831-1911), 1904