How shall I look upon that brow,
O crowned with thorns for me?
How shall I lift my sinful eyes,
Those glorious eyes to see?
How shall I dare to look upon
The piercèd hands and feet,
When all the dead in Christ shall rise
Their risen Lord to meet?
How shall I venture, holy Lord,
To come before Thee now,
All stained with sin my evil heart,
Its mark upon my brow?
My waywardness, my willfulness,
The sins I dare not name,
Gave to the Lord of Life His death,
The Lord of Glory shame.
The lame and blind were hated then
Of holy David’s soul;
They came to Thee in temple, Lord,
And Thou didst make them whole.
The leper dared not sit or rest
Where trace of man had been;
Yet didst Thou deign, all merciful,
To touch, and make him clean.
From some the righteous pure will shrink,
And shun their face to see,
But harlot and the publican
Thou calledst unto Thee.
And when Thy blessèd hands were pierced,
Upon the bitter tree,
Even in that hour of agony,
Thou thought with love of me.
Alas! I knew not what I did,
I know not what I do,
When by my sins I crucify
The Son of God anew.
I only know that I am vile,
More vile than words can say,
But know that Jesus did not will
The worst be cast away.