Ye that pass by, be­hold the man,
The man of grief con­demned for you;
The Lamb of God for sin­ners slain
Weeping to Cal­va­ry pur­sue.

See how His back the scourg­es tear,
While to the bloody pil­lar bound!
The plough­ers make long fur­rows there,
Till all His bo­dy is one wound.

The ab­jects spit up­on that face
Which pro­phets wished in vain to see,
On which the an­gels loved to gaze,
Pleased with His mild­er ma­jes­ty.

Adored by an­gels, mocked by men,
Speechless the form of guilt He wears,
Reviled He an­swers not again,
But meek­ly all their in­sults bears.

Nor can He thus their hate as­suage,
His in­no­cence to death pur­sued,
Must ful­ly glut their ut­most rage;
Hark how they cla­mor for His blood!

To us our own Ba­rab­bas give,
Away with Him, they loud­ly cry.
Away with Him, not fit to live,
The vile se­duc­er cru­ci­fy.

Against his God the crea­ture calls:
Accused and sen­tenced by the breath
Himself in­spired, their mak­er falls;
The Lord of Life is doomed to death.

His sac­red limbs, they stretch, they tear,
With nails they fast­en to the wood—
His sac­red limbs ex­posed and bare,
Or on­ly co­vered with His blood.

See there! His tem­ples crowned with thorns,
His bleed­ing hands ex­tend­ed wide;
His stream­ing feet trans­fixed and torn,
The fount­ain gush­ing from His side.

Where is the King of Glory now?
The ev­er­last­ing Son of God!
Th’Immortal hangs His lang­uid brow,
Th’Almighty faints be­neath His load.

Beneath my load, He faints and dies:
I filled His soul with pangs un­known;
I caused those mor­tal groans and cries,
I killed the Fa­ther’s on­ly Son.

Oh! Thou dear suf­fer­ing Son of God,
How doth Thy heart to sin­ners move!
Help me to catch Thy pre­cious blood,
Help me to taste Thy dy­ing love.

Give me to feel Thy ago­nies,
One drop of Thy sad cup af­ford;
I fain with Thee would sym­pa­thize,
And share the suf­fer­ings of my Lord.

The earth could to her cen­ter quake,
Convulsed, while her cre­at­or died;
O let my in­most na­ture shake,
And bow with Je­sus cru­ci­fied.

At Thy last gasp the graves dis­played
Their hor­rors to the up­per skies;
Oh, that my soul might burst the shade,
And quick­ened by Thy death, arise.

The rocks could feel Thy pow­er­ful death,
And trem­ble, and asun­der part;
O rent with Thy ex­pir­ing breath
The hard­er mar­ble of my heart.

My sto­ny heart Thy voice shall rent,
Thou wilt, I trust, the veil re­move,
My in­most bow­els shall re­sent
The yearn­ings of Thy dy­ing love.

The grace I sure­ly shall rec­eive,
Thy death hath bought the grace for me;
This is my whole de­sire, to live;
To live, and then to die in Thee.