The won­der­ing world in­quires to know
Why I should love my Je­sus so:
What are His charms, say they, above
The ob­jects of a mor­tal love?

Yes! my be­lov­èd, to my sight
Shows a sweet mix­ture, red and white:
All hu­man beau­ties, all div­ine,
In my be­lov­èd meet and shine.

White is His soul, from blem­ish free;
Red with the blood He shed for me;
The fair­est of ten thou­sand fairs;
A sun among ten thou­sand stars.

His head the fin­est gold ex­cels;
There wis­dom in per­fect­ion dwells,
And glo­ry like a crown adorns
Those tem­ples once be­set with thorns.

Compassions in His heart are found,
Hard by the sig­nals of His wound:
His sac­red side no more shall bear
The cru­el scourge, the pierc­ing spear.

His hands are fair­er to be­hold
Than dia­monds set in rings of gold;
Those heav’n­ly hands, that on the tree
Were nailed, and torn, and bled for me!

Though once He bowed His fee­ble knees,
Loaded with sins and ago­nies,
Now on the throne of His com­mand
His legs like mar­ble pil­lars stand.

His eyes are ma­jes­ty and love,
The ea­gle tem­pered with the dove;
No more shall trick­ling sor­rows roll
Through those dear win­dows of His soul.

His mouth, that poured out long com­plaints,
Now smiles and cheers His faint­ing saints;
His coun­te­nance more grace­ful is
Than Le­ba­non with all its trees.

All ov­er glo­ri­ous is my Lord;
Must be be­loved, and yet adored;
His worth if all the na­tions knew,
Sure the whole earth would love Him, too.