How sweet in ev­ery try­ing scene,
That wounds the spi­rit here,
To feel that Je­sus bore our grief,
And know He still is near;
O ye who o’er the couch of death
Your lone­ly watch have kept,
Tho’ ang­uish rend your ach­ing breast,
Remember Je­sus wept.

He groaned in spi­rit while He spoke:
Where have you laid the dead?
Lord, come and see, they mur­mured low,
He fol­lowed where they led;
Beneath a cold se­pul­chral stone
An on­ly bro­ther slept,
And an­gels won­dered as they gazed,
For lo! the Sav­ior wept.

How oft the pray­er our lips would breathe
The heart alone may speak;
How oft the pe­ni­ten­tial tear
Bedews the mourn­er’s cheek:
Poor child of toil, though dark and sad,
Thy wea­ry lot may be,
With few to smooth life’s rug­ged path,
Thy Sav­ior wept for thee.