How shall I look upon that brow,
O crowned with thorns for me?
How shall I lift my sin­ful eyes,
Those glo­ri­ous eyes to see?

How shall I dare to look up­on
The pierc­èd hands and feet,
When all the dead in Christ shall rise
Their ris­en Lord to meet?

How shall I ven­ture, ho­ly Lord,
To come be­fore Thee now,
All stained with sin my ev­il heart,
Its mark up­on my brow?

My way­ward­ness, my will­ful­ness,
The sins I dare not name,
Gave to the Lord of Life His death,
The Lord of Glo­ry shame.

The lame and blind were hat­ed then
Of ho­ly David’s soul;
They came to Thee in te­mple, Lord,
And Thou didst make them whole.

The le­per dared not sit or rest
Where trace of man had been;
Yet didst Thou deign, all mer­ci­ful,
To touch, and make him clean.

From some the right­eous pure will shrink,
And shun their face to see,
But har­lot and the pub­li­can
Thou calledst unto Thee.

And when Thy bless­èd hands were pierced,
Upon the bit­ter tree,
Even in that hour of ago­ny,
Thou thought with love of me.

Alas! I knew not what I did,
I know not what I do,
When by my sins I cru­ci­fy
The Son of God anew.

I on­ly know that I am vile,
More vile than words can say,
But know that Je­sus did not will
The worst be cast away.