To Cal­va­ry as­cend­ing,
With Je­sus let us go,
Beneath the sha­dow bend­ing
Of all His migh­ty woe:
The Chief of our sal­va­tion
Should we not fol­low nigh,
With all His tri­bu­la­tion,
In all His death to die?

The rear­ward’s faint way­far­er
Must stag­ger with his load,
Where still the Stan­dard Bear­er
Leads up the mount­ain road:
Wrung out from life’s af­flict­ion,
Death has no bi­tter cup
So sharp, but cru­ci­fix­ion
Has brimmed its sor­rows up.

Does life’s last fe­ver burn­ing
Thy couch with ang­uish toss?
His racked limbs had no turn­ing,
His death­bed was the cross:
Each vein of life-drops stream­ing,
From sole to crown di­vine,
Has, Death, for thy re­deem­ing
A deep­er pang than thine.

Art poor? in all thy toil­ing
See how the Mas­ter sped,
His robe, His ves­ture’s spoil­ing,
His na­ked, home­less head!
The fox his hole, the spar­row
Has where to lay her nest,
Those rood beams, hard and nar­row,
Are all thy Sav­ior’s rest.

Have ev­il tongued op­press­ors
Thy re­pu­ta­tion torn?
Hark, num­bered with trans­gress­ors
He bears the rob­bers’ scorn!
The sharp­ened nails as­sail­ing
Less need the opi­ate bowl
Than those fell tongues, im­pal­ing
Their ir­on in His soul.

Dost fear the pangs of dy­ing,
When death has poised his dart?
See, all those ar­rows fly­ing
Are ga­thered in His heart!
A moist wind, gent­ly sigh­ing,
Is now that fur­nace blast;
Death, in His bit­ter cry­ing,
Thy bit­ter­ness is past.