See! where in shame the God of glory hangs,
All bathed in His own blood:
See! how those nails pierce with a thousand pangs
Those hands so good.
Th’All Holy, as a minister of ill,
Betwixt two thieves they place;
Oh, deed unjust! yet such the cruel will
Of Israel’s race.
Pale grows His face, and fix’d His languid eye;
His wearied head He bends;
And rich in merits, forth with one loud cry
His Spirit sends.
O heart more hard than iron! not to weep
At this; thy sin it was
That wrought His death; of all these torments deep
Thou art the cause.
Praise, honour, glory be through endless time
To th’everlasting God;
Who wash’d away our deadly stain of crime
In His own blood.