Weep not for Him who on­ward bears
His cross to Cal­va­ry;
He does not ask
Man’s pi­tying tears,
Who wills for man to die.

The aw­ful sorrow of His face,
The bow­ing of His frame,
Come not from tor­ture
Or dis­grace;
He fears not cross or shame.

There is a deep­er pang of grief,
An ago­ny un­known,
In which His love
Finds no re­lief;
He bears it all alone.

He thinks of all for whom His life
Of low­li­ness and pain,
And wea­ri­ness
And care and strife,
Will be, alas, in vain.

He sees the souls for whom He dies
Yet cling­ing to their sin,
And heirs of man­sions
In the skies
Who will not en­ter in.

Ah! this, my Sav­ior, was the shame
That bowed Thy head so low;
These were the wounds
That racked Thy frame,
And made Thy tears to flow.

O may I in Thy sor­row share,
And mourn that sins of mine
Should ev­er wound
With grief or care
That lov­ing heart of Thine.