The morn­ing dawns up­on the place
Where Je­sus spent the night in pray­er;
Through yield­ing glooms be­hold His face,
Nor form nor come­li­ness is there.

Last eve, by those He called His own,
Betrayed, for­sak­en, or de­nied,
He met His ene­mies alone
In all their mal­ice, rage, and pride.

Brought forth to judg­ment, now He stands
Arraigned, con­demned, at Pi­late’s bar:
Here, spurned by fierce præ­to­ri­an bands,
There mocked by He­rod’s men of war.

He bears their buf­fet­ing and scorn,
The hom­age of the lip, the knee,
The pur­ple robe, the crown of thorn,
The scourge, the nail, th’ac­curs­èd tree.

No guile with­in His mouth is found,
He nei­ther threat­ens nor com­plains:
Meek as a lamb for slaugh­ter bound,
Dumb ’midst His mur­der­ers He re­mains.

But hark! He prays—’tis for His foes;
He speaks—’tis com­fort to His friends;
Answers—and pa­ra­dise be­stows;
He bows His head; the con­flict ends.

Truly this was the Son of God!
Though in a ser­vant’s mean dis­guise;
And, bruised be­neath the Fa­ther’s rod,
Not for Him­self—for man He dies.