I see the crowd in Pilate’s hall,
I mark their wrathful mien;
Their shouts of
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.