Ye That Pass By, Behold the Man

Ye that pass by

be­hold the man

The man of grief con­demned for you;

The Lamb of God for sin­ners slain

Weeping to Cal­va­ry pur­sue.

See how His back the scourg­es tear

While to the bloody pil­lar bound!

The plough­ers make long fur­rows there

Till all His bo­dy is one wound.

The ab­jects spit up­on that face

Which pro­phets wished in vain to see

On which the an­gels loved to gaze

Pleased with His mild­er ma­jes­ty.

Adored by an­gels

mocked by men

Speechless the form of guilt He wears

Reviled He an­swers not again

But meek­ly all their in­sults bears.

Nor can He thus their hate as­suage

His in­no­cence to death pur­sued

Must ful­ly glut their ut­most rage;

Hark how they cla­mor for His blood!

To us our own Ba­rab­bas give

Away with Him

they loud­ly cry.

Away with Him

not fit to live

The vile se­duc­er cru­ci­fy.

Against his God the crea­ture calls:

Accused and sen­tenced by the breath

Himself in­spired

their mak­er falls;

The Lord of Life is doomed to death.

His sac­red limbs

they stretch

they tear

With nails they fast­en to the wood—

His sac­red limbs ex­posed and bare

Or on­ly co­vered with His blood.

See there! His tem­ples crowned with thorns

His bleed­ing hands ex­tend­ed wide;

His stream­ing feet trans­fixed and torn

The fount­ain gush­ing from His side.

Where is the King of Glory now?

The ev­er­last­ing Son of God!

Th’Immortal hangs His lang­uid brow

Th’Almighty faints be­neath His load.

Beneath my load

He faints and dies:

I filled His soul with pangs un­known;

I caused those mor­tal groans and cries

I killed the Fa­ther’s on­ly Son.

Oh! Thou dear suf­fer­ing Son of God

How doth Thy heart to sin­ners move!

Help me to catch Thy pre­cious blood

Help me to taste Thy dy­ing love.

Give me to feel Thy ago­nies

One drop of Thy sad cup af­ford;

I fain with Thee would sym­pa­thize

And share the suf­fer­ings of my Lord.

The earth could to her cen­ter quake

Convulsed

while her cre­at­or died;

O let my in­most na­ture shake

And bow with Je­sus cru­ci­fied.

At Thy last gasp the graves dis­played

Their hor­rors to the up­per skies;

Oh

that my soul might burst the shade

And quick­ened by Thy death

arise.

The rocks could feel Thy pow­er­ful death

And trem­ble

and asun­der part;

O rent with Thy ex­pir­ing breath

The hard­er mar­ble of my heart.

My sto­ny heart Thy voice shall rent

Thou wilt

I trust

the veil re­move

My in­most bow­els shall re­sent

The yearn­ings of Thy dy­ing love.

The grace I sure­ly shall rec­eive

Thy death hath bought the grace for me;

This is my whole de­sire

to live;

To live

and then to die in Thee.