O, en­ter then the te­mple, when
The Lord still pass­es in;
The one with­out was first to doubt,
The bless­ing last to win.
O cruel! must thy hand be thrust
Thy source of life so near;
Thy Lord as­sail, hard as the nail,
Unkinder than the spear?

Yet, see, He comes with peace again,
With on­ly peace to all;
No breath­ing now up­on the brow
Where soon the fire shall fall:
Scarce will that eye His wounds des­cry,
No hand He now ex­tends;
How should that flesh be probed afresh
Here, in the house of friends?

So now, thy Lord, thy God con­fess,
Believe and wor­ship, too,
And first adore—yet they have more
Who deem the wit­ness true.
Thy faith has been but what was seen—
Blest they who still be­lieve
What eye nor ear shall see or hear,
Nor heart of man con­ceive!

O, on my bo­dy, not on Thine,
Lord Je­sus, let me see
The bless­èd marks of love di­vine,
Which Thou hast borne for me;
Compunctions sweet on hands and feet,
The pierced, the op­en heart;
Or e’er, without one faith­less doubt,
I see Thou as Thou art.