Jesu, Si­on’s king, we greet Thee,
On the Way of Sor­rows meet Thee,
Meekly com­ing un­to death;
In ex­treme hu­mi­li­ation,
Just and gird­ed with sal­va­tion,
E’en as Ze­cha­ri­ah sa­ith.

King, how soon the cru­el scorn­ing,
Purple robe for mock ad­orn­ing,
Scepter poor of bend­ing reed;
Then Thine in­fi­nite af­flict­ion,
Bloody sweat and cru­ci­fix­ion,
Thirst, and last dread hour of need.

By Thy pre­cious blood, good Je­sus,
From trans­gress­ion’s bur­den ease us,
By Thy wounds, give health di­vine;
And our lives vouch­safe to fa­shion,
By the vir­tue of Thy Pas­sion,
Into like­ness un­to Thine.

Thus here­af­ter may we mer­it
That glad Ci­ty to in­her­it,
Which the cross, dear Lord, makes free;
There, where no­thing may af­flict us,
Chant un­end­ing Be­ne­dic­tus,
Palm and crown cast down to Thee.