Jesu, so­lace of my soul,
Gentle Me­di­at­or,
King of kings from pole to pole,
Heaven and earth’s cre­at­or,
Who can praise Thee as he ought,
Thee, the world-wide won­der,
Tell what pangs our sor­rows wrought,
Rending Thee asun­der?

Love, it drew Thee from the sky,
Love of souls that per­ished,
Leaving—here on earth to die—
All Thy glo­ries cher­ished:
Born in­to the vale of tears,
There Thy­self more tear­ful;
Toiling up the steep of years
To a height more fear­ful.

Born life’s sad­dest paths to tread,
Thou the world’s sal­va­tion,
Hungry, Thou the Liv­ing Bread,
In its de­so­la­tion;
Thou, the four­fold ri­ver’s fount,
Paradise all steep­ing,
Thirsting on the curs­èd Mount,
In the Gar­den weep­ing!

O, the depth, the breadth, the height
Of Thy love’s ex­ten­sion,
Jesus, O the won­drous might
Of Thy con­des­cen­sion;
Innocency’s pur­est bloom,
All Thy foes re­fut­ing,
Bearing all our sor­row’s doom,
All our sins im­put­ing.

Mine the while the joys of life,
Thine its tri­bu­la­tion;
Mine the glo­ry of the strife,
Thine the con­ster­na­tion;
Mine the ban­quet’s sweet­ness all,
Thine the self-de­vo­tion;
Thine the vi­ne­gar and gall
For Thy bit­ter po­tion!