Scripture Verse

He was oppressed and afflicted, yet He did not open His mouth; He was led like a lamb to the slaughter. Isaiah 53:7


Paul Gerhardt (1607–1676)

Words: Paul Ger­hardt, in Prax­is Pi­eta­tis Me­li­ca, third edi­tion, by Jo­hann Crü­ger, 1648 (Ein Lämm­lein Geht). Com­po­site trans­la­tion.

Music: An Was­ser­flüs­sen Ba­by­lon, ge­ne­ral­ly at­trib­ut­ed to Wolf­gang Dach­stein, in Teutsch Kirch­en­ampt mit lo­big­seng­en (Strass­burg, Ger­ma­ny: 1525) (🔊 pdf nwc).


A Lamb goes un­com­plain­ing forth,
The guilt of all men bear­ing;
And la­den with the sins of earth,
None else the bur­den shar­ing!
Goes pa­tient on, grow weak and faint,
To slaugh­ter led with­out com­plaint,
That spot­less life to of­fer;
Bears shame and stripes, and wounds and death,
Anguish and mock­ery, and saith,
Willing all this I suf­fer.

This Lamb is Christ, the soul’s great friend,
The Lamb of God, our Sav­ior;
Him God the Fa­ther chose to send
To gain for us His fa­vor.
Go forth, My Son, the Fa­ther saith,
And free men from the fear of death,
From guilt and con­dem­na­tion.
The wrath and stripes are hard to bear,
But by Thy pass­ion men shall share
The fruit of Thy sal­va­tion.

Yea, Fa­ther, yea, most will­ing­ly
I’ll bear what Thou com­mand­est;
My will con­forms to Thy de­cree,
I do what Thou de­mand­est.

O won­drous Love, what hast Thou done!
The Fa­ther of­fers up His Son!
The Son, con­tent, des­cend­eth!
O Love, how strong Thou art to save!
Thou bed­dest Him with­in the grave
Whose word the mount­ains rend­eth.

From morn till eve my theme shall be
Thy mer­cy’s won­drous mea­sure;
To sac­ri­fice my­self for Thee
Shall be my aim and plea­sure.
My stream of life shall ev­er be
A cur­rent flow­ing cease­less­ly,
Thy con­stant praise out­pour­ing.
I’ll trea­sure in my me­mo­ry,
O Lord, all Thou hast done for me,
Thy gra­cious love ador­ing.

Of death I am no more afraid,
New life from Thee is flow­ing;
Thy cross af­fords me cool­ing shade
When noon­day’s sun is glow­ing.
When by my grief I am op­pressed,
On Thee my wea­ry soul shall rest
Serenely as on pil­lows.
Thou art my an­chor when by woe
My bark is driv­en to and fro
On trou­ble’s surg­ing bil­lows.

And when Thy glo­ry I shall see
And taste Thy king­dom’s plea­sure,
Thy blood my roy­al robe shall be,
My joy be­yond all mea­sure.
When I ap­pear be­fore Thy throne,
Thy right­eous­ness shall be my crown—
With these I need not hide me.
And there, in gar­ments rich­ly wrought
As Thine own bride, I shall be brought
To stand in joy be­side Thee.

Albrecht Dürer (1471–1528)