Scripture Verse

He, bearing His cross, went forth into a place called the place of a skull, which is called in the Hebrew Golgotha. John 19:17


John Newton

Words: John New­ton, Ol­ney Hymns (Lon­don: W. Ol­iv­er, 1779), Book 2, num­ber 56. It is good to be here.

Music: Cal­va­ry (Monk) Will­iam H. Monk, in Hymns An­cient and Mo­dern, 1875 (🔊 pdf nwc).

Alternate Tunes:

  • Baltimore com­pos­er un­known, in the Sunday-School Hym­nal (St. Lou­is Mis­sou­ri: Con­cor­dia Pub­lish­ing House, 1912) (🔊 pdf nwc)
  • Death Will­iam H. Monk (1823–1889) (🔊 pdf nwc)
William H. Monk


Let me dwell on Gol­go­tha,
Weep and love my life away!
While I see Him on the tree
Weep and bleed, and die for me!

That dear blood, for sin­ners spilt,
Shows my sin in all its guilt:
Ah, my soul, He bore thy load,
Thou hast slain the Lamb of God.

Hark! His dy­ing words; For­give,
Father, let the sin­ner live;
Sinner, wipe thy tears away,
I thy ran­som free­ly pay.

While I hear this grace re­vealed,
And ob­tain a par­don sealed;
All my soft af­fect­ions move,
Wakened by the force of love.

Farewell world, thy gold is dross,
Now I see the bleed­ing cross;
Jesus died to set me free
From the law, and sin, and thee!

He has dear­ly bought my soul
Lord, ac­cept, and claim the whole!
To Thy will I all re­sign,
Now, no more my own, but Thine.


The Lark

There is a le­gend some­where told
Of how the sky­lark came of old
To the dy­ing Sav­ior’s cross,
And circ­ling round that form of pain
Poured forth a wild, la­ment­ing strain,
As if for hu­man loss.

Pierced by those ac­cents of des­pair,
Upon the tiny mourn­er there
Turning His fad­ing eyes,
The Sav­ior said, “Dost thou so mourn
And is thy fra­gile breast so torn,
That man, thy bro­ther, dies?

“O’er all the world up­lift­ed high,
We are alone here, thou and I;
And near to Hea­ven and thee
I bless thy pi­ty-guid­ed wings!
I bless thy voice—the last that sings
Love’s re­qui­em for Me.

Sorrow no more shall fill thy song;
These frail and flut­ter­ing wings grown strong,
Thou shalt no long­er fly
Earth’s cap­tive—nay, but bold­ly dare
The az­ure vault, and up­ward bear,
Thy trans­ports to the sky!

Soon passed the Sav­ior; but the lark,
Close hov­er­ing near Him in the dark,
Could not his grief abate;
And nigh the watch­ers at the tomb,
Still mourned through days of grief and gloom,
With note dis­con­so­late.

But when to those sad mourn­ers came,
In rose and am­ethyst and flame,
The Dawn Mi­ra­cu­lous,
Song in which sor­row had no part,
Burst from the lark’s tri­um­phant heart—
Sweet and tu­mul­tu­ous!

An in­stant, as with rap­ture blind,
He fal­tered; then, his Lord to find,
Straight to the eth­er flew—
Rising where falls no hu­man tear,
Singing where still his song we hear
Piercing the up­per blue!

Florence Earle Coates (1850–1927)