Oh, why, by fu­ri­ous rage com­bined,
Were Is­ra­el’s sons with hea­thens joined,
And mad­ly drew the hos­tile sword
Against their own an­oint­ed Lord?
Their blind­ed coun­sels but ful­fill
The gra­cious pur­pose of His will.

By them that pre­cious blood was spilt,
Which flowed to wash away our guilt;
And Je­sus but re­signed His breath
To tri­umph ov­er sin and death;
Henceforth as Son of God to reign,
The uni­verse His wide do­main.

Those sac­red brows, once torn with thorns,
An ev­er­last­ing crown adorns;
Those hands, by cru­el cords dis­graced,
In which the in­sult­ing reed was placed,
Now grasp the migh­ty rod of pow’r—
Oh trem­ble, na­tions, and ad­ore!

But still, yes still, with ten­der love,
He prays, He pleads for us above;
Oh seek we then the Sav­ior’s face,
With joy ac­cept His of­fered grace,
Ere, armed with ven­geance from on high,
He comes in dread­ful ma­jes­ty.