The morning dawns upon the place
Where Jesus spent the night in prayer;
Through yielding glooms behold His face,
Nor form nor comeliness is there.
Last eve, by those He called His own,
Betrayed, forsaken, or denied,
He met His enemies alone
In all their malice, rage, and pride.
Brought forth to judgment, now He stands
Arraigned, condemned, at Pilate’s bar:
Here, spurned by fierce prætorian bands,
There mocked by Herod’s men of war.
He bears their buffeting and scorn,
The homage of the lip, the knee,
The purple robe, the crown of thorn,
The scourge, the nail, th’accursèd tree.
No guile within His mouth is found,
He neither threatens nor complains:
Meek as a lamb for slaughter bound,
Dumb ’midst His murderers He remains.
But hark! He prays—’tis for His foes;
He speaks—’tis comfort to His friends;
Answers—and paradise bestows;
He bows His head; the conflict ends.
Truly this was the Son of God!
Though in a servant’s mean disguise;
And, bruised beneath the Father’s rod,
Not for Himself—for man He dies.