What are these wounds, so deep, so wide,
That in Thy sac­red hands ap­pear?
By My own na­tion cru­ci­fied,
By My own friends I suf­fer here:
My house­hold foes, who bear My name,
Have nailed Me to this shame­ful tree;
And eve­ry day I wound­ed am,
Thou poor, back­slid­ing soul—by thee!