Blest Je­sus, when Thy cross I view,
That mys­te­ry to th’an­gel­ic host,
I gaze with grief and rap­ture, too,
And all my soul’s in won­der lost.

What strange com­pass­ion filled Thy breast,
That brought Thee from Thy throne on high,
To woes that can­not be ex­pressed,
To be des­pised, to groan and die!

For man didst Thou for­sake the sky,
To bleed up­on the curs­èd tree?
And didst Thou taste of death, to buy
Immortal life and bliss for me?

Had I a voice to praise Thy name,
Loud as the trump that wakes the dead,
Had I the rap­tured se­raph’s flame,
My debt of love could ne’er be paid.

Yet Lord, a sin­ner’s heart re­ceive,
This bur­dened, con­trite heart of mine;
Thou know­est I’ve naught be­side to give;
And let it be for ev­er Thine.