As near to Cal­va­ry I pass,
Methinks I see a bloody cross,
Where a poor vic­tim hangs,
His flesh with rug­ged irons tore,
His limbs all dressed in pu­rple gore,
Gasping in dy­ing pangs.

Surprised the spec­ta­cle to see,
I asked, Who can this vic­tim be
In such ex­qui­site pain?
Why thus con­signed to woes, I cried,
’Tis I, the bleed­ing God replied,
To save a world from sin.

A God for re­bel mor­tal dies;
How can it be? my soul re­plies,
What! Je­sus die for me?
Yes, saith the suf­fer­ing Son of God,
I give My life, I spill My blood,
For thee, poor soul, for thee.

Lord, since Thy life Thou’st free­ly giv’n
To bring my wretch­ed soul to Heav’n,
And bless me with Thy love,
Then at Thy feet, O God, I’ll fall,
Give Thee my life, my soul, my all,
To reign with Thee above.