My Lord, my Mas­ter,
At Thy feet ad­or­ing,
I see Thee bowed
Beneath Thy load of woe;
For me, a sin­ner,
Is Thy life blood pour­ing;
For Thee, my Sav­ior,
Scarce my tears will flow.

Thine own di­sci­ple
To the Jews has sold Thee,
With friend­ship’s kiss
And loy­al word he came;
How oft of faith­ful
Love my lips have told Thee,
While Thou hast seen
My false­hood and my shame.

With taunts and scoffs
They mock what seems Thy weak­ness,
With blows and out­rage
Adding pain to pain;
Thou art un­moved
And stead­fast in Thy meek­ness;
When I am wronged
How quick­ly I com­plain!

My Lord, my Sav­ior,
When I see Thee wear­ing
Upon Thy bleed­ing
Brow the crown of thorn,
Shall I for plea­sure live,
Or shrink from bear­ing
Whate’er my lot
May be of pain or scorn?

O Vic­tim of Thy love,
O pangs most heal­ing,
O sav­ing death,
O wounds that I ad­ore,
O shame most glo­ri­ous!
Christ, be­fore Thee kneel­ing,
I pray Thee keep
Me Thine for ev­er­more.