Recall, my heart, that dreadful hour,
When Jesus on the cursèd tree
Infinite pains and sorrows bore—
Think, O my soul, was this for thee?
See, crowned with thorns that sacred head,
With beams of glory once adorned!
That voice, which Heav’n and earth obeyed,
Is now by traitors mocked and scorned.
And see those lovely melting eyes,
Whence kind compassion often flowed,
Now raised imploring to the skies,
For hardened souls athirst for blood!
Those healing hands with blessings fraught,
Nailed to the cross with pungent smart!
Inhuman deed! Could no kind thought
To pity move the ruthless heart?
But oh! What agonies unknown
His soul sustained beneath the load
Of mortal crimes! How deep the groan
Which calmed the vengeance of a God!
He groaned! He died! The awful scene
Of wonder, grief, surprising love,
For ever let my heart retain,
Nor from my Savior’s feet remove.
O Jesus, take this wretched heart,
Which trembling, mourning, comes to Thee;
The blessing of Thy death impart
And tell my soul, ’tis all for me.