Who is He that pur­ple wea­ring,
All the taunts of mal­ice bear­ing—
Silent ’neath the mock­er’s scorn?
As a lamb to slaugh­ter lead­ing,
Bound and wound­ed, faint and bleed­ing,
Pale and wea­ry—sor­row-worn;
Scourged and smit­ten, un­com­plain­ing,
Dust and gore His gar­ments stain­ing—
See! they pierce with thorns His brow;
Fainting, ’neath the cross now bend­ing,
Tears with Salem’s daugh­ters blend­ing!
Son of Man ! ’tis Thou! ’tis Thou.

Hear our sins round Cal­va­ry cry­ing,
Crucify Him! Cru­ci­fy Him!
See! they smite Him on the head.
King of Jews they, mock­ing, hail Him,
Naked to the tree they nail Him,
’Neath our hands the Sin­less bled.
Rugged nails His hands have riv­en,
Hung ashamed ’twixt earth and Hea­ven—
Blameless, num­bered with the worst.
O’er His pale face gore-drops stream­ing,
Frownless still, with love still beam­ing,
’Neath the wrath of God ac­curst.

Hark! He prays, while ago­niz­ing,
For the mur­der­ers who des­pise Him!
Sinners! whence that ang­uished cry?
Sore re­proach My heart is break­ing,
God! My God! hast Thou for­sak­en
Thy Be­lov­èd—why? oh! why?
Sin alone could thus ac­cuse Him,
Though it pleased the Lord to bruise Him,
All our sins were on Him laid;
For trans­gres­sion was He strick­en,
For the sheep the shep­herd smit­ten—
Thus the full atone­ment made.

It is fin­ished! hear Him cry­ing—
Meekly bows His head, and dy­ing,
Thus He jus­tice sa­tis­fies;
With His blood each pro­mise seal­ing,
Wondrous love to man re­veal­ing,
God His co­ve­nant ra­ti­fies.
Trembling na­ture quails in thun­der,
Heav’n, ashamed, grows black with won­der:
See! the sun hath veiled His face!
Hear, the awe-struck hea­then cry­ing,
Is the God of na­ture dy­ing?
Hath th’Eter­nal left His place?

Heav’n and hell around are press­ing,
Man’s eter­nal curse or bless­ing,
Dead—the Lord of Life to see.
Helpless as an in­fant sleep­ing,
Friends—how few! around Him weep­ing,
Loose Him from the bloody tree;
Weeping wo­men o’er Him bend­ing,
Trembling fear their bo­soms rend­ing,
Mourn th’eclipse of Glo­ry’s sun;
While in lin­en cloths they wind Him,
With the cords of death they bind Him
Can these hold the Ho­ly One?

Arch-apos­tate! though you slay Him,
In the dust of death you lay Him,
Thou hast bruised His heel at length!
See His gar­ments! O! how glo­ri­ous!
Traveling in His might vic­to­ri­ous—
Edom! He hath spoiled thy strength.
Father—God! oh! what could move Him,
Sons of Ad­am thus to love them,
Thus to give the Son to death?
’Tis His will, and Thou hast done it,
Take the king­dom, Thou hast won it,
Even so, the Fa­ther saith.

Salem—see thy wan­ing glo­ry,
Clouds of doom are ga­ther­ing o’er thee—
Now thy fall­en shrine grows dark;
Stars on Zion-hill de­clin­ing,
Tell the promised Sun is shin­ing!
Hark! they echo—we de­part.
See, the tem­ple veil is rend­ing!
See, the ris­ing God as­cend­ing!
King of Glo­ry, en­ter in.
Thou the gates of brass hast ri­ven,
Paved a way from earth to Hea­ven—
Pardon’s won for dark­est sin.

To the in­ner shrine re­turn­ing,
With un­ceas­ing in­cense burn­ing,
Blood-bought mer­cy to pro­claim;
Lift the scep­ter, reign for ev­er—
Worthy is the Lamb for ev­er—
Worthy is the Lamb once slain.
Sacrifice, by God ap­point­ed,
Rich with gifts for men anoint­ed,
Shadows melt in per­fect day;
Prophet, Priest, and Me­di­at­or,
Man-Redeemer, God, Cre­at­or—
Aaron, cast thy robes away.

Christ is migh­ty to de­li­ver,
Mercy is built up for ev­er
In the broken law ful­filled;
His right hand the curse re­mov­èd,
God well pleased in the Be­lov­èd—
Sinai’s peals in Cal­va­ry stilled.
In the great pro­pi­ti­ation,
Sin con­demned, pro­claim sal­va­tion,
Sinner, here your sen­tence see.
See the debt your sins had spot­ted,
By His Ho­ly arm there blot­ted,
Nailed upon th’ac­curs­èd tree.

See the cleans­ing foun­tain op­en,
In His bo­dy bruised and brok­en,
Pardon through aton­ing blood;
Righteousness by faith re­veal­ing,
Here for ev­ery wound is heal­ing,
Peace pro­claimed ’twixt man and God.

From Marion P. Aird
The Home of the Heart, 1846