The priests, the el­ders, and the scribes,
From coun­cil had ad­journed;
And Pi­late’s prof­fered sac­ri­fice,
The mob had prompt­ly spurned.

And up Gol­go­tha’s ris­ing slope,
A bois­ter­ous, cru­el, band,
With taunts, and jeers, and foul re­buke,
Leads forth the Son of Man.

Oh, what a scene for hu­man eyes!
Our Sav­ior, bowed in grief;
And tor­tured by the ve­ry ones
To whom He brings re­lief.

Close at His side, a swar­thy man
Beneath His cross doth bow;
Oh Simon! Ne’er did mor­tal bend
To nob­ler task than thou.

And, on the brow of Cal­va­ry,
With scoff­ing, and with scorn,
They nailed our Sav­ior to the cross,
With dia­dem of thorn.

’Tis done, and Jo­seph now has laid
His bo­dy in the tomb;
And none ex­cept the guards keep watch,
Amid the som­ber gloom.

But what can bar our ho­ly Lord,
Or cross His won­drous plan?
The strong­hold ’bout His lone­ly tomb.
Shows un­be­lief of man.

When, to the tomb, the wo­men came,
In grief, at break of day,
An an­gel, ’mid an earth­quake vast,
Had rolled the stone away.

No pow­er with­in this great do­main,
Can stay our migh­ty king;
Oh grave, where is thy vic­to­ry,
Oh death, where is thy sting!

Despite the grave, des­pite the bar,
In tri­umph He hath flown.
And sit­teth now at God’s right hand,
Joint-rul­er of His own.