1 Jesu, Sion’s King, we greet Thee,
On the Way of Sorrows meet Thee,
Meekly coming unto death;
In extreme humiliation,
Just and girded with salvation,
E’en as Zechariah saith.

2 King, how soon the cruel scorning,
Purple robe for mock adorning,
Scepter poor of bending reed;
Then Thine infinite affliction,
Bloody sweat and crucifixion,
Thirst, and last dread hour of need.

3 By Thy precious blood, good Jesus,
From transgression’s burden ease us,
By Thy wounds, give health divine;
And our lives vouchsafe to fashion,
By the virtue of Thy Passion,
Into likeness unto Thine.

4 Thus hereafter may we merit
That glad City to inherit,
Which the cross, dear Lord, makes free;
There, where nothing may afflict us,
Chant unending Benedictus,
Palm and crown cast down to Thee.