No more, dear Sav­ior, will I boast
Of beau­ty, wealth, or loud ap­plause;
The world has all its glo­ries lost,
Amid the tri­umphs of Thy cross.

In ev­ery fea­ture of Thy face
Beauty her fair­est charms dis­plays;
Truth, wis­dom, ma­jes­ty, and grace,
Shine thence in sweet­ly min­gled rays.

Thy wealth the pow’r of thought trans­cends,
’Tis vast, im­mense, and all di­vine;
Thy em­pire, Lord, o’er worlds ex­tends—
The sun, the moon, the stars are Thine.

Yet, oh how mar­vel­ous the sight!
I see Thee on a cross ex­pire;
Thy God­head veiled in sa­ble night;
And an­gels from the scene re­tire.

But, why from these sad scenes re­treat?
Why with your wings your fac­es hide?
He ne’er ap­peared so good, so great,
As when he bowed His head and died.

The in­dig­na­tion of a God
On Him av­eng­ing jus­tice hurled:
Beneath the weight He firm­ly stood,
And nob­ly saved a fall­ing world.

These tri­umphs of stu­pen­dous grace
Surprise, re­joice, and melt my heart;
Lord, at Thy cross I stand and gaze,
Nor would I ev­er thence de­part!