Cross of Christ, O sacred tree,
Hide my sins and shel­ter me;
Claim or mer­it I have none,
I am vile and all un­done;
I to Thee for suc­cor fly—
Give me re­fuge, or I die.
Cross of Christ, O sac­red tree,
All my hopes are hung on thee.

Cross of Christ, O sac­red tree,
Let me to thy sha­dow flee;
Here they mocked the Cru­ci­fied,
Here the roy­al suf­fer­er died;
Here was shed the atoning blood,
Till it crim­soned all the sod;
Cross of Christ, O sac­red tree,
Can the guil­ty trust in thee?

Cross of Christ, O sac­red tree,
Type of love’s deep mys­te­ry.
’Twas my sins pro­voked this love,
I this match­less pas­sion moved;
For my soul this love was stored;
On my head the bless­ing poured;
Cross of Christ, O sac­red tree,
Now I solve love’s mys­te­ry.

Cross of Christ, O sac­red tree,
This my boast shall ev­er be,
That the blood for me was shed,
That for me He groaned and bled;
Now I catch that gra­cious eye,
Now I know I shall not die;
Cross of Christ, O sac­red tree,
All my guilt is lost in thee!