Yonder—amaz­ing sight!—I see
Th’in­car­nate Son of God,
Expiring on the ac­curs­èd tree,
And wel­ter­ing in His blood.

Behold a pur­ple tor­rent run
Down from His hands and head:
The crim­son tide puts out the sun;
His groans awake the dead.

The trem­bling earth, the dark­ened sky,
Proclaim the truth aloud;
And with th’am­azed cen­tur­ion cry,
This is the Son of God.

So great, so vast a sac­ri­fice,
May well my hope re­vive:
If God’s own Son thus bleeds and dies,
The sin­ner sure may live.

O that these cords of love di­vine,
Might draw me, Lord to Thee,
Thou hast my heart, it shall be Thine—
Thine it shall ev­er be!