1 Lo—on th’inglorious tree
Our God, the God of Glory, hangs;
All steeped in blood is He,
And pierced with pangs.

2 A felon’s death He dies,
Uplift betwixt that robber-twain;
Sweet Lamb for sacrifice,
By sinners slain.

3 Pale, pale grows that dear brow,
In death that drooping head declines;
His parched lip moves and now
His soul resigns—

4 His placid soul—oh! gaze
On that wan face, that crown of thorn;
Those eyes which death-films glaze,
There look and mourn.

5 Mourn, and, with tears of blood,
Weep till thine eyes in death grow dim,
For Him unto the wood
Thou nail’st, yea Him—

6 To whom, the mighty God,
Washing in blood our sins away,
Our everlasting laud
We meekly pay.