Recall, my heart, that dread­ful hour,
When Je­sus on the curs­èd tree
Infinite pains and sor­rows bore—
Think, O my soul, was this for thee?

See, crown­ed with thorns that sac­red head,
With beams of glo­ry once ad­orned!
That voice, which Heav’n and earth ob­eyed,
Is now by trai­tors mocked and scorned.

And see those love­ly melt­ing eyes,
Whence kind com­pas­sion oft­en flowed,
Now raised im­plor­ing to the skies,
For hard­ened souls athirst for blood!

Those heal­ing hands with bless­ings fraught,
Nailed to the cross with pun­gent smart!
Inhuman deed! Could no kind thought
To pi­ty move the ruth­less heart?

But oh! What ago­nies un­known
His soul sus­tained be­neath the load
Of mor­tal crimes! How deep the groan
Which calmed the ven­geance of a God!

He groaned! He died! The aw­ful scene
Of won­der, grief, sur­pris­ing love,
For ev­er let my heart re­tain,
Nor from my Sav­ior’s feet re­move.

O Je­sus, take this wretch­ed heart,
Which trem­bling, mourn­ing, comes to Thee;
The bless­ing of Thy death im­part
And tell my soul, ’tis all for me.