See! where in shame the God of glo­ry hangs,
All bathed in His own blood:
See! how those nails pierce with a thou­sand pangs
Those hands so good.

Th’All Ho­ly, as a min­is­ter of ill,
Betwixt two thieves they place;
Oh, deed un­just! yet such the cru­el will
Of Is­ra­el’s race.

Pale grows His face, and fixed His lang­uid eye;
His wea­ried head He bends;
And rich in mer­its, forth with one loud cry
His Spir­it sends.

O heart more hard than ir­on! not to weep
At this; thy sin it was
That wrought His death; of all these tor­ments deep
Thou art the cause.

Praise, hon­or, glo­ry be through end­less time
To th’ev­er­last­ing God;
Who wash’d away our dead­ly stain of crime
In His own blood.