Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do. Luke 23:34
Hence from my soul, my sins, depart,
Your fatal friendship now I see;
Long have you dwelt too near my heart:
Hence, to eternal distance flee.
Ye gave my dying Lord His wound,
Yet I caressed your viperous brood,
And in my heart-strings lapped you round,
You, the vile murderers of my God.
Black heavy thoughts, like mountains, roll
O’er my poor breast, with boding fears,
And crushing hard my tortured soul,
Wring thro’ my eyes the briny tears.
Forgive my treasons, Prince of Grace,
The bloody Jews were traitors too,
Yet Thou hast prayed for that cursed race,
Father, they know not what they do.
Great Advocate, look down and see
A wretch, whose smarting sorrows bleed;
O plead the same excuse for me!
For, Lord, I knew not what I did.
Peace, my complaints; let every groan
Be still, and silence wait His love;
Compassions dwell amidst His throne,
And thro’ His inmost bowels move.
Lo, from the everlasting skies,
Gently, as morning dews distill,
The dove immortal downward flies,
With peaceful olive in his bill.
How sweet the voice of pardon sounds!
Sweet the relief to deep distress!
I feel the balm that heals my wounds,
And all my powers adore the grace.