I love the ho­ly Son of God,
Who once this vale of sor­row trod,
Who bore my sins, a dread­ful load,
Up Cal­va­ry’s gloomy mount­ain.

There on the cross the Sav­ior hung,
The sport of many an im­pi­ous tongue,
While pain ex­treme His na­ture wrung,
And flowed life’s crim­son fount­ain.

The sun would not be­hold the scene,
But round Him threw night’s sa­ble screen;
Nature was robed in mourn­ing mien,
And sighed when Je­sus suf­fered.

But ah! His per­se­cut­ors stood,
Reviling Christ, the Son of God,
Unmoved to see His gush­ing blood,
And shock­ing in­sults of­fered.

O! why did not His fu­ry burn,
And floods of ven­geance on them turn?
Amazing! See, His bow­els yearn
In soft com­pass­ion on them.

No fu­ry kin­dles in His eyes,
They beam with love—and when He dies,
Fa­ther, for­give, the Suf­fer­er cries,
They know not!—O for­give them.

How ar­dent ought my love to be
To Him who’s done so much for me;
My con­stant ser­vice, faith­ful, free—
And all my pow­ers em­ploy­ing.

I should my cross with plea­sure bear,
And place my all of glo­ry­ing there,
In His re­proach most glad­ly share,
In tri­bu­la­tion joy­ing.

And ne­ver shall it be con­cealed,
He hath to me His love re­vealed,
Of all my sins a par­don sealed—
I feel His bless­èd fa­vor.

In Him I do and will re­joice;
I’ll praise Him with a cheer­ful voice,
Until the theme my tongue em­ploys
In Hea­ven above, for­ev­er.