’Twas I That Did It

I see the crowd in Pi­late’s hall

I mark their wrath­ful mien;

Their shouts of cru­ci­fy ap­pall

With blas­phe­my between.

And of that shout­ing mul­ti­tude

I feel that I am one;

And in that din of voic­es rude

I re­cog­nize my own.

I see the scourg­es tear His back

I see the pierc­ing crown

And of that crowd who smite and mock

I feel that I am one.

Around yon cross

the throng I see

Mocking the suf­fer­er’s groan

Yet still my voice it seems to be—

As if I mocked alone.

’Twas I that shed the sac­red blood

I nailed Him to the tree

I cru­ci­fied the Christ of God

I joined the mock­ery.

Yet not the less that blood avails

To cleanse away my sin

And not the less that cross pre­vails

To give me peace with­in.