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.