They Clothed Him in a Purple Robe

They clothed Him in a pur­ple robe

And mock­ing

bowed the knee;

In His pale brow

all crowned with thorns

No glo­ry could they see.

Within His hand they placed a reed

And smote His sac­red face;

Rude fur­rows on His back they plowed—

The scars of their dis­grace.

Patient our Sav­ior stood

nor spoke

One venge­ful

an­gry word;

Theirs was in­deed the cru­el hand

Jehovah’s was the sword.

Love meek­ly bowed His sac­red head

Beneath the venge­ful knife;

He for His people free­ly gave

Himself

His all

His life.

And thus in ev­ery age Christ stands

’Mid bold

blas­phem­ing men;

The learn­èd pierce Him with their words

The vulg­ar cry

Amen.

With scorn­ful hate and sub­tle thought

They nail His qui­ver­ing flesh

To the cold pil­lar of their scorn

And tear his wounds afresh.

And still all si­lent

pa­tient

meek

The Lord of glo­ry stands;

His bleed­ing heart He still dis­plays

His wound­ed feet and hands.

But

oh! the glo­ry of His face

Shall yet strike ter­ror down

And all His foes with fear shall quail

When He shall wear His crown.