Jesu, Sion’s King, we greet Thee,
On the Way of Sorrows meet Thee,
Meekly coming unto death;
In extreme humiliation,
Just and girded with sal­va­tion,
E’en as Zechariah saith.

King, how soon the cruel scorning,
Purple robe for mock adorning,
Scepter poor of bending reed;
Then Thine infinite affliction,
Bloody sweat and crucifixion,
Thirst, and last dread hour of need.

By Thy precious blood, good Je­sus,
From trans­gress­ion’s bur­den ease us,
By Thy wounds, give health divine;
And our lives vouchsafe to fashion,
By the virtue of Thy Passion,
Into likeness unto Thine.

Thus hereafter may we merit
That glad City to inherit,
Which the cross, dear Lord, makes free;
There, where nothing may afflict us,
Chant unending Benedictus,
Palm and crown cast down to Thee.