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.