My song is love un­known,
My Sav­ior’s love to me;
Love to the love­less shown,
That they might love­ly be.
O who am I, that for my sake
My Lord should take frail flesh and die?

He came from His blest throne
Salvation to be­stow;
But men made strange, and none
The longed for Christ would know:
But O! my friend, my friend in­deed,
Who at my need His life did spend.

Sometimes they strew His way,
And His sweet prais­es sing;
Resounding all the day
Hosannas to their king:
Then Cru­ci­fy! is all their breath,
And for His death they thirst and cry.

Why, what hath my Lord done?
What makes this rage and spite?
He made the lame to run,
He gave the blind their sight,
Sweet in­ju­ries! Yet they at these
Themselves dis­please, and ’gainst Him rise.

They rise and needs will have
My dear Lord made away;
A mur­der­er they saved,
The Prince of Life they slay,
Yet cheer­ful He to suf­fer­ing goes,
That He His foes from thence might free.

In life, no house, no home
My Lord on earth might have;
In death no friend­ly tomb
But what a stran­ger gave.
What may I say? Heav’n was His home;
But mine the tomb where­in He lay.

Here might I stay and sing,
No sto­ry so di­vine;
Never was love, dear King!
Never was grief like Thine.
This is my friend, in whose sweet praise
I all my days could glad­ly spend.