O Lord most ho­ly! can it be
That Thou shouldst suf­fer thus for me,
Bereft of con­so­la­tion?
Lord, what is man, that from above,
Thou shouldst des­cend, in won­drous love,
To die for our sal­va­tion?
Blessèd Je­su! I adore Thee,
And be­fore Thee make con­fess­ion,
Thou wast slain by my trans­gress­ion.

Thee crowned with thorns my faith adores:
Thee on the cross my soul im­plores—
In death Thy foes sub­du­ing!
There pa­ra­dise is still Thy own;
Thy pow­er up­on the cross is shown,
There all our hope re­new­ing!
Now Thy sor­rows, Lord, shall grieve me,
Yet re­lieve me, life and heal­ing
To my wound­ed spi­rit seal­ing.

Ah, how shall I such love re­quite,
To Thou, my Lord, my life, my light,
No pains for me dis­dain­ing?
I yield myself, my all to Thee;
Henceforth, O Je­su, dwell in me,
O’er all with­in me reign­ing.
Holy Je­su! King of glo­ry!
I im­plore Thee, com­fort send me;
Jesus! un­to death at­tend me.