Now let our lips with ho­ly fear
And mourn­ful plea­sure sing
The suf­fer­ings of our great high priest,
The sor­rows of our king.

He sinks in floods of deep dis­tress,
How high the wa­ters rise!
While to His hea­ven­ly Fa­ther’s ear
He sends per­pe­tu­al cries.

“Hear me, O Lord, and save Thy Son,
Nor hide Thy shin­ing face;
Why should Thy fa­vo­rite look like one
Forsaken of Thy grace?

“With rage they per­se­cute the man
That groans be­neath Thy wound,
While for a sac­ri­fice I pour
My life up­on the ground.

“They tread my hon­or to the dust,
And laugh when I com­plain;
Their sharp in­sult­ing slan­ders add
Fresh ang­uish to my pain.

“All my re­proach is known to Thee,
The scan­dal and the shame;
Reproach has broke My bleed­ing heart,
And lies de­filed My name.

“I looked for pi­ty, but in vain;
My kin­dred are my grief:
I ask My friends for com­fort round,
But meet with no re­lief.

“With vi­ne­gar they mock My thirst,
They give Me gall for food;
And sport­ing with My dy­ing groans,
They tri­umph in My blood.

“Shine into my dis­tress­èd soul,
Let Thy com­pas­sion save;
And though my flesh sink down to death,
Redeem it from the grave.

I shall arise to praise Thy name,
Shall reign in worlds un­known;
And Thy sal­va­tion, O my God,
Shall seat me on Thy throne.