To Calv’ry, Lord, in spir­it now,
Our wea­ry souls re­pair,
To dwell up­on Thy dy­ing love,
And taste its sweet­ness there.

Sweet rest­ing place of ev­ery heart,
That feels the plague of sin,
Yet knows that deep mys­te­ri­ous joy,
The peace with God, with­in.

There, through Thine hour of deep­est woe,
Thy suf­fer­ing spir­it passed;
Grace there its won­drous vic­to­ry gained,
And love en­dured its last.

Dear suf­fer­ing Lamb! Thy bleed­ing wounds,
With cords of love di­vine,
Have drawn our will­ing hearts to Thee,
And linked our life with Thine.

Thy sym­pa­thies and hopes are ours:
Dear Lord! we wait to see
Creation, all be­low, above,
Redeemed and blest by Thee.

Our long­ing eyes would fain be­hold
That bright and bless­èd brow,
Once wrung with bit­ter­est ang­uish, wear
Its crown of glo­ry now.

Why lin­ger then? Come, Sav­ior, come,
Responsive to our call;
Come, claim Thine an­cient pow­er, and reign
The Heir and Lord of all.