Darkly rose the guil­ty morn­ing,
When, the King of glo­ry scorn­ing,
Raged the fierce Je­ru­sa­lem;
See the Christ, His cross up­bear­ing,
See Him strick­en, spit on, wear­ing
The thorn-plat­ed dia­dem.

Not the crowd whose cries as­sailed Him,
Nor the hands that rude­ly nailed Him,
Slew Him on the curs­èd tree;
Ours the sin from Heav’n that called Him,
Ours the sin whose bur­den galled Him
In the sad Geth­se­ma­ne.

For our sins, of glo­ry emp­tied,
He was fast­ing, lone, and tempt­ed,
He was slain on Cal­va­ry;
Yet He for His mur­der­ers plead­ed;
Lord, by us that pray­er is need­ed,
We have pierc­ed, yet trust in Thee.

In our wealth and tri­bu­la­tion,
By Thy pre­cious cross and pass­ion,
By Thy blood and ago­ny,
By Thy glo­ri­ous re­sur­rect­ion,
By Thy Holy Ghost’s pro­tect­ion,
Make us Thine eter­nal­ly.