They clothed Him in a pur­ple robe,
And mock­ing, bowed the knee;
In His pale brow, all crowned with thorns,
No glo­ry could they see.
Within His hand they placed a reed,
And smote His sac­red face;
Rude fur­rows on His back they plowed—
The scars of their dis­grace.

Patient our Sav­ior stood, nor spoke
One venge­ful, an­gry word;
Theirs was in­deed the cru­el hand,
Jehovah’s was the sword.
Love meek­ly bowed His sac­red head
Beneath the venge­ful knife;
He for His people free­ly gave
Himself, His all, His life.

And thus in ev­ery age Christ stands
’Mid bold, blas­phem­ing men;
The learn­èd pierce Him with their words,
The vulg­ar cry, Amen.
With scorn­ful hate and sub­tle thought
They nail His qui­ver­ing flesh
To the cold pil­lar of their scorn
And tear his wounds afresh.

And still all si­lent, pa­tient, meek,
The Lord of glo­ry stands;
His bleed­ing heart He still dis­plays,
His wound­ed feet and hands.
But, oh! the glo­ry of His face
Shall yet strike ter­ror down,
And all His foes with fear shall quail
When He shall wear His crown.