Stretched on the cross, the Sav­ior dies,
Hark! His ex­pir­ing groans arise!
See, from His hands, His feet, His side,
Runs down sac­red crim­son tide!

But life attends the death­ful sound,
And flows from ev­ery bleed­ing wound;
The vi­tal stream, how free it flows,
To save and cleanse His re­bel foes!

To suf­fer in the trai­tor’s place,
To die for man, sur­pris­ing grace!
Yet pass re­bel­lious an­gels by—
O why for man, dear Sav­ior, why?

And didst Thou bleed? for sin­ners bleed?
And could the sun be­hold the deed?
No, he with­drew his sick­en­ing ray,
And dark­ness veiled the mourn­ing day.

Can I sur­vey this scene of woe,
Where ming­ling grief and won­der flow,
And yet my heart un­moved re­main,
Insensible to love or pain!

Come, dear­est Lord, Thy pow­er im­part,
To warm this cold, this stu­pid heart,
Till all its pow­ers and pass­ions move,
In melt­ing grief and ar­dent love.