Now let our mourn­ful songs re­cord
The dy­ing sor­rows of our Lord,
When He com­plained in tears and blood,
As one for­sak­en of his God.

The Jews be­held Him thus for­lorn,
And shake their heads, and laugh in scorn:
“He res­cued oth­ers from the grave;
Now let Him try Him­self to save.

This is the man did once pre­tend
God was His Fa­ther and His friend;
If God the bless­èd loved Him so,
Why doth He fail to help Him now?

Barbarous peo­ple! cru­el priests!
How they stood round like sa­vage beasts!
Like li­ons gap­ing to de­vour,
When God had left Him in their power.

They wound His head, His hands, His feet,
Till streams of blood each oth­er meet;
By lot His gar­ments they di­vide,
And mock the pangs in which He died.

But God, the Fa­ther, heard His cry;
Raised from the dead, He reigns on high;
The na­tions learn His right­eous­ness,
And hum­ble sin­ners taste His grace.