They clothed Him in a purple robe,
And mocking, bowed the knee;
In His pale brow, all crowned with thorns,
No glory could they see.
Within His hand they placed a reed,
And smote His sacred face;
Rude furrows on His back they plowed—
The scars of their disgrace.
Patient our Savior stood, nor spoke
One vengeful, angry word;
Theirs was indeed the cruel hand,
Jehovah’s was the sword.
Love meekly bowed His sacred head
Beneath the vengeful knife;
He for His people freely gave
Himself, His all, His life.
And thus in every age Christ stands
’Mid bold, blaspheming men;
The learnèd pierce Him with their words,
The vulgar cry,
With scornful hate and subtle thought
They nail His quivering flesh
To the cold pillar of their scorn
And tear his wounds afresh.
And still all silent, patient, meek,
The Lord of glory stands;
His bleeding heart He still displays,
His wounded feet and hands.
But, oh! the glory of His face
Shall yet strike terror down,
And all His foes with fear shall quail
When He shall wear His crown.