See the bless­èd Sav­ior dy­ing
On the cross for ru­ined man;
There the will­ing spot­less Vic­tim,
Working out re­demp­tion’s plan;
Listen to His lov­ing ac­cents,
Fa­ther, O for­give! He cries;
Hark! again, He speaks, ’Tis fin­ished!
Ere He bows His head and dies.

With this cru­el death be­fore Him,
Every in­sult, pang, fore­seen,
Naught could move Him from His pur­pose,
No dis­may could in­ter­vene;
Yea, and through the con­tra­dict­ion,
Nothing could His calm­ness move:
O the won­drous depths eter­nal
Of His own al­migh­ty love!

Love, which made Him Prince of Glo­ry,
Come to die, the Sin­ner’s Friend,
Love be­yond the reach of mor­tals,
Deepest thoughts to com­pre­hend.
Sinner, make this love thy por­tion,
Slight not love so vast and free;
Still un­blest, if un­for­giv­en—
Come! the Sav­ior call­eth thee.