I see the crowd in Pi­late’s hall,
I mark their wrath­ful mien;
Their shouts of cru­ci­fy ap­pall,
With blas­phe­my between.

And of that shout­ing mul­ti­tude
I feel that I am one;
And in that din of voic­es rude,
I re­cog­nize my own.

I see the scourg­es tear His back,
I see the pierc­ing crown,
And of that crowd who smite and mock,
I feel that I am one.

Around yon cross, the throng I see,
Mocking the suf­fer­er’s groan,
Yet still my voice it seems to be—
As if I mocked alone.

’Twas I that shed the sac­red blood,
I nailed Him to the tree,
I cru­ci­fied the Christ of God,
I joined the mock­ery.

Yet not the less that blood avails,
To cleanse away my sin,
And not the less that cross pre­vails
To give me peace with­in.