Now from the gar­den to the cross,
Let us at­tend the Lamb of God.
Be all things else ac­count­ed dross,
Compared with sin aton­ing blood.

See, how the pa­tient Jesus stands,
Insulted in His low­est case;
Sinners have bound th’al­migh­ty hands;
And spit in their cre­at­or’s face.

With thorns His tem­ples gored and gashed
Send streams of blood from ev­ery part.
His back’s with knot­ted scourg­es lashed,
But sharp­er scourg­es tear His heart.

Nailed nak­ed to th’ac­curs­èd wood,
Exposed to earth and Heav’n ab­ove,
A spec­ta­cle of wounds and blood;
A pro­di­gy of in­jured love.

Hark! how His dole­ful cries af­fright
Affected an­gels, while they view.
His friends for­sook Him in the night;
And now His God fo­rsakes Him, too!

O, what a field of bat­tle’s here!
Vengeance and love their pow’rs op­pose.
Never was such a migh­ty pair;
Never were two such des­per­ate foes.

Behold that pale, that lan­guid face,
That droop­ing head, those cold dead eyes!
Behold in sor­row and dis­grace
Our con­qu’ring he­ro hangs, and dies!

Ye that as­sume His sac­red name,
Now tell me, what can all this mean?
What was it bruised God’s harm­less Lamb?
What was it pierced His soul, but sin?

Blush, Christian, blush; let shame ab­ound:
If sin af­fects thee not with woe,
Whatever spir­it’s in thee found,
The Spir’t of Christ thou dost not know.