See, world, up­on the bloody tree
Thy life there sinks in death;
Covered with stripes and wounds for thee,
Thy Sav­ior yields His breath.

Thou Prince of Glo­ry knew’st no sin;
What caused, Thee, then Thy pain?
Thou harm­less, un­de­filed and clean,
What caused Thee to be slain?

My sins, as nu­mer­ous as the sands,
Upon the ocean shore,
Have been the cru­el mur­der­ous hands
That wound­ed Thee so sore.

Thy ang­uish, Thy tor­ment­ing pain,
And ev­ery dread­ful woe,
Thou didst so will­ing­ly sus­tain,
My soul should un­der­go.

Thou on Thy shoul­ders tak’st the whole,
To ease my bur­dened heart:
Thou bear’st the curse, to bless my soul,
And heal’st me with Thy smart.

Thy won­drous love to evi­dence,
Thou wouldst my sure­ty be;
Thyself would’st pay my debt im­mense,
Thereby to set me free.

Thou art dest­ruct­ion to the grave;
Death’s ene­my severe;
That each who was be­fore his slave,
Might now be saved from fear.

My debt to Thee, Thou God of Love!
Weak words can­not ex­press;
I can­not here, if there above,
Show pro­per thank­ful­ness.

Grant me but this while I am here,
Since I can no­thing give,
Thy suf­fer­ings in my heart to bear,
And in Thy death to live!