Object of all our know­ledge here,
Our one de­sire, and hope below,
Jesus, the Cru­ci­fied, draw near,
And with Thy sad disciples go:
Our thoughts and words to Thee are known,
We com­mune of Thy­self alone.

How can it be, our rea­son cries,
That God should leave His throne above?
Is it for man th’Im­mor­tal dies?
For man, who tram­ples on His love?
For man, who nailed Him to the tree?
O Love! O God! He dies for me!

Why then, if Thou for me hast died,
Dost Thou not yet Thy­self im­part?
We hoped to feel Thy blood ap­plied,
To find Thee ris­en in our heart,
Redeemed from all ini­qui­ty,
Saved, to the ut­most saved, thro’ Thee.

Have we not then be­lieved in vain,
By Christ un­sanc­ti­fied, un­freed?
In us He is not ris’n again,
We know not but He still is dead,
No life, no right­eous­ness we have,
Our hopes seem bur­ied in His grave.

Ah! Lord, if Thou in­deed art ours,
If Thou for us hast burst the tomb,
Visit us with Thy quick­en­ing pow­ers,
Come to Thy mourn­ful fol­low­ers, come,
Thyself to Thy weak mem­bers join,
And fill us with the life di­vine.

Thee, the great Pro­phet sent from God,
Mighty in deed and word we own;
Thou hast on some the grace be­stowed,
Thy ris­ing in their hearts made known;
They pub­lish Thee to life re­stored,
Attesting they have seen the Lord.

Alas for us, whose eyes are held!
Why can­not we our Sav­ior see?
With us Thou art yet still con­cealed:
O might we hear one word from Thee!
Speak, and to our un­belief re­prove,
Our base­ness to mis­trust Thy love.

Fools as we are, and slow of heart,
So back­ward to be­lieve the Word!
The pro­phets’ on­ly aim Thou art:
They sang the suf­fer­ings of their Lord,
Thy life for ours a ran­som giv­en,
Thy ris­ing to en­sure our Hea­ven.

Ought not our Lord the death to die,
And then the glo­ri­ous life to live?
To stoop; and then to go up on high?
The pain, and then the joy re­ceive?
His blood, the pur­chase price lay down,
Endure the cross, and claim the crown?

Ought not the mem­bers all to pass
The way their Head had passed be­fore?
Thro’ suf­fer­ings per­fect­ed He was,
The garment dipped in blood He wore,
That we with Him might die, and rise
And bear His na­ture to the skies!