The Sweetness of That Midnight Hour: A Song for Suffering Saints

If you had asked me two years ago what I believed about suffering, I might have answered with tidy theology. I might have quoted Romans 8:28, or Romans 8:18 or James 1:2. I would have spoken confidently about sanctification, refining fires, and God’s sovereign purposes.

But when suffering came knocking at my own door: uninvited, unrelenting, and disorienting, those well-rehearsed answers crumbled. Pain, especially prolonged pain, has a way of distorting our view of God. His promises can feel out of reach. His presence, veiled. And yet, strangely, it was in that very midnight, those dark, hidden, weeping hours, that I began to sense the gentle nearness of Christ.

That’s why when I first heard the song “The Sweetness of That Midnight Hour” by Joyful Noise, it felt like someone had tuned their instrument to my soul’s lament. The lyrics didn’t offer escape; they offered companionship. They named the ache and pointed to the nearness of the Man of Sorrows (Isaiah 53:3), the Shepherd who walks through the valley and does not abandon His sheep.

I want to reflect on this song for fellow sufferers. For saints learning to sing in the dark. For those who, like Paul and Silas, know what it means to lift up prayer and praise at midnight (Acts 16:25).

1. When the World Grows Still

The sweetness of that midnight hour
When all the world is still
When You draw near and gladly I
Surrender to Your will
Though no one knows, though all alone
Yet not alone, for there
You meet me in the midnight hour
With tender loving care

Midnight… It’s not just on the clock, it’s also midnight in the heart. It is the soul’s dark night (Psalm 88:6–18). It’s the moment no one sees, when we lie awake with questions, we’re afraid to voice in daylight. Here, in that vulnerable stillness, God draws near.

Not as a distant observer offering pitiful glances of ‘aki wuoishe’ (as my friend likes to put it), but as a tender Father (Psalm 34:18). In the loneliness of our suffering, we are never truly alone. And it is in the warmth of that nearness that we surrender. We surrender, not because the pain has stopped, but because the presence of Christ is enough.

“If I say, “Surely the darkness will overwhelm me, And the light around me will be night,” Even the darkness is not dark to You, And the night is as bright as the day. Darkness and light are alike to You.” (Psalm 139:11–12, NASB 1995)

He meets us in the midnight hour, not with answers always, but with Himself.

2. The Grace-Filled Wilderness

The richness of that desert place
When all around is bare
And yet the fullness of Your grace
Is all sufficient there!
The barren land with manna filled
Now Christ who reigns on high
Still meets me in the desert place
And every need supplies

The desert is a place of stripping. There is no illusion of self-sufficiency there. You look around and see only barrenness: emotionally, physically, spiritually. And yet, it is often in the wilderness that the richness of God’s grace becomes tangible. He doesn’t merely rescue us from the desert; He feeds us in it.

“Therefore, behold, I will allure her, Bring her into the wilderness, And speak kindly to her” (Hosea 2:14, NASB 1995).

In the Old Testament, God rained down manna, one day at a time, teaching His people to depend on His sufficiency (Exodus 16:4). He does the same for us in our modern deserts.

“And He has said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for power is perfected in weakness.’” (2 Corinthians 12:9, NASB 1995).

We long for deliverance, but He offers daily bread. We crave escape, but He gives endurance and Himself. In the wilderness, He may not remove the barrenness, but He fills it with grace.

3. When Darkness Is My Closest Friend

The brightness of that deepest night
When all is stripped away
When darkness is my closest friend
And helplessly I pray
For there though still with pain I cry
Against the velvet sky
The brightest light begins to shine
For Christ is ever mine

This verse is so raw. “When darkness is my closest friend.” The psalmist used those same words in Psalm 88:18. It’s one of the only psalms that ends without resolution. No “but God.” No victory. Just darkness. And that’s important. Because not all nights are short. Not all prayers are answered immediately.

The song insists: “The brightest light begins to shine.” Why? Because Christ has not left. Our circumstances may not change, but our anchor holds (Hebrews 6:19). Even when the pain remains, when the sky is velvet black, Christ is ours, and He is enough.

“Whom have I in heaven but You? And besides You, I desire nothing on earth. My flesh and my heart may fail, But God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.” (Psalm 73:25–26, NASB 1995).

This is not naive hope. It’s not a denial of the pain or the darkness. This is rugged faith. It’s the voice that whispers in the dark, “Christ is mine.” And that changes everything. Not because the night disappears, but because we’re not alone in it.

The Gospel in the Midnight Hour

The saints of old were rarely given quick escapes. Joseph waited in prison. David wept in caves. Paul pleaded three times for his thorn to be removed, and the answer was no. They were not promised immediate deliverance, but they were pointed to something greater: the character of God and the promise of redemption. And today, we are pointed to the same place where both converge — the Cross.

This is what makes the gospel our anchor in suffering. Jesus Christ, the Son of God, stepped into our midnight. He did not stay distant from grief — He became “a Man of Sorrows, acquainted with grief” (Isaiah 53:3). He lived among us, endured betrayal, reviling, loneliness, rejection, and unspeakable pain. On the Cross, He entered the darkest night, forsaken so that we might never be.

“…and He Himself bore our sins in His body on the cross…” (1 Peter 2:24, NASB 1995)

And in His resurrection, dawn broke. The grave could not hold Him. Suffering did not write the final word. Jesus rose in power, securing eternal life, unfailing mercy, and unshakable hope for all who trust in Him. And now, oh dear saint, no suffering is wasted, no tear unseen, no midnight final.

“He who did not spare His own Son, but delivered Him over for us all, how will He not also with Him freely give us all things?” (Romans 8:32, NASB 1995)

The gospel is not a quick fix. It is a bloody Cross and an empty tomb. It tells us that suffering is not the end of the story. Our Saviour has conquered death. That one day, one glorious day (sigh!), Midnight will end forever.

A Song for Suffering Saints

The Sweetness of That Midnight Hour is a hymn not for the strong but for the weak. Not for those at the mountaintop, but for those in the valley. It’s for those who have prayed with cracked voices, wept into their pillows, and still dared to whisper, “I trust You.” And it offers the deeper hope that we are not walking alone.

The midnight hour is real. But so is the Man who meets us there. His name is Jesus. We sing because He has suffered with us, bled for us, risen for us, and will one day return to wipe every tear from our eyes (Revelation 21:4). We sing because the gospel tells us that our trials are light and momentary compared to the eternal weight of glory being prepared for us (2 Corinthians 4:17). We sing because we know He knows and understands our pain.

“For we do not have a high priest who cannot sympathize with our weaknesses… Therefore let us draw near with confidence to the throne of grace…” (Hebrews 4:15–16, NASB 1995).

One of my favourite books on suffering — The Sweet Side of Suffering by M. Esther Lovejoy — is a beautiful and honest exploration of how our pain can not only hurt so badly… but it can also hurt so good.

So, if you’re there: in the desert, the silence, the sorrow; don’t stop singing. Christ is there with you.