Lo—On the Inglorious Tree

Lo—on th’in­glor­ious tree

Our God

the God of Glo­ry

hangs;

All steeped in blood is He

And pierced with pangs.

A fe­lon’s death He dies

Uplift be­twixt that rob­ber-twain;

Sweet Lamb for sac­ri­fice

By sin­ners slain.

Pale

pale grows that dear brow

In death that droop­ing head de­clines;

His parched lip moves and now

His soul re­signs—

His pla­cid soul—oh! gaze

On that wan face

that crown of thorn;

Those eyes which death-films glaze

There look and mourn.

Mourn

and

with tears of blood

Weep till thine eyes in death grow dim

For Him un­to the wood

Thou nail’st

yea Him—

To whom

the migh­ty God

Washing in blood our sins away

Our ev­er­last­ing laud

We meek­ly pay.