Sometimes a vi­sion comes to me,
Of Christ, my Lord, on Cal­va­ry.
I see Him climb the rug­ged road,
Bowed down be­neath His aw­ful load.
I hear the mock­ing rab­ble’s cry,
I see the scoff­ing hosts go by;
But on He press­es, weak and faint:
He fal­ters not, nor makes com­plaint.

O Christ, my Sav­ior, Thou couldst see
The swift­ly near­ing tra­ge­dy;
Already in Thy hands could feel
The tor­ture of the cruel steel.
Thy heart was break­ing ’neath the weight
Of man’s great sin—but O, so great
The love, that Thou Thy life couldst give,
That all who look to Thee might live.

O blest Re­deem­er, nev­er let
My heart for one brief hour for­get
How much the sin­ner owes to Thee;
Nor that the sin­ner mean­eth me!
O help me feel what love was Thine,
What pity, won­drous and di­vine,
That Thou shouldst bear the cross for me,
And die on cruel Cal­va­ry.