O Lord, the wil­der­ness to me
A ve­ry pa­ra­dise shall be,
Since Thou for for­ty days wast there,
In fast­ing, so­li­tude and pray­er.

Unworthy though these feet to rest
On ground Thy foot­steps once have blest,
The way of sor­rows shall be mine,
Made sweet be­cause it first was Thine.

Lord, let me find some low­ly place
Where I may seek Thy pi­ty­ing face,
And plead with Thee by Ol­iv­et,
By ago­ny, and bloody sweat.

Some qui­et aisle or dim re­cess
Shall make for me a wil­der­ness;
And sure­ly an­gels shall be there
To wait on pe­ni­tence and pray­er.

Nor is this all: for I would know
The depth of shame, the crown of woe
Stand by the strick­en mo­ther’s side,
While Thou art mocked and cru­ci­fied.

And then in hours of sad­dest gloom
I still will watch around Thy tomb,
Till with the day new joy be born,
And Thou shalt rise on East­er morn.

O bless­èd thought, that faith can see
In ev­ery al­tar—Cal­va­ry,
Find there the lov­ing arms ou­tspread,
And fall be­fore the fall­en Head.

Come King of kings, come Light of light:
The Bride awaits the day all bright,
When she shall lift, her mourn­ing o’er,
The shout of Pas­chal joy once more.