The wounds which Je­sus once en­dured
Were stig­mas of His shame;
But now they have for Him pro­cured
An ev­er­las­ting name.

The nail-prints, and the lance’s scar
The work of hell­ish spite,
His bright tri­um­phal tro­phies are,
And badg­es of His might.

Behold these hands; at My com­mand
Touch them, the Sav­ior cried;
Reach hi­ther, Tho­mas, reach thy hand,
And thrust it in My side.

Thomas ob­eyed the Sav­ior’s word,
My Lord and God, he said;
He owned his mas­ter and his Lord,
And to his God he prayed.

O migh­ty Con­quer­or of the grave!
To Thee be end­less praise,
For all the proofs Thy mer­cy gave
That Thou Thy­self didst raise.

For with Thee Lord, we up­ward tend,
With Thee Thy mem­bers rise;
In Thine as­cen­sion we as­cend
To man­sions in the skies.

Praise for the proofs that we re­ceive
Through Tho­mas, Lord, from Thee;
He doubt­ed that we might be­lieve,
And ne­ver doubt­ful be.

Praise al­so for the les­son taught
To our fond hu­man love,
When Thou didst raise a wo­man’s thought
From earth to Heav’n above.

Through Tho­mas we Thy man­hood know;
And, through the Mag­da­lene,
We learn to touch, while here be­low,
Thy de­ity un­seen.