He stood in the midst of His chos­en,
At East­er He stood at e’en;
The wounds that were made by the ir­on
In the hands and the feet were seen.
And he showed where the bar­bar­ous spear­head,
Transfixing His heart, had been.

He stood as the sun ’mid the pla­nets,
Enriching their orbs with light;
He stood as a cap­tain in­spir­ing
His sol­diers to brave the fight;
And He stood as a rose in a gar­den,
Its or­na­ment and de­light.

He stood to re­vive the droop­ing,
He stood to sus­tain the frail;
He stood to in­fuse fresh cour­age
In those that be­gin to fail;
As a guide and a help to the pil­grims
Who tra­verse this tear­ful vale.

In the midst of the Church He stand­eth,
A fount­ain whence vir­tue flows;
He light­ens, He leads, He pas­tures,
His sheep by their name He knows;
And wher­ev­er His flock He lead­eth,
Before them the Pas­tor goes.

In the midst of the fierc­est bat­tle
He stand­eth with suc­cor near;
In the black­est and wild­est tem­pest,
A bea­con the tossed to cheer.
I walk through the val­ley of sha­dows;
I see Him, and I have no fear.