1 The morning dawns upon the place
Where Jesus spent the night in prayer;
Through yielding glooms behold His face!
Nor form nor comeliness is there.

2 Last eve, by those He called His own,
Betrayed, forsaken, or denied,
He met His enemies alone
In all their malice, rage, and pride.

3 Brought forth to judgment, now He stands
Arraigned, condemned, at Pilate’s bar:
Here, spurned by fierce prætorian bands,
There, mocked by Herod’s men of war.

4 He bears their buffeting and scorn,
Mock homage of the lip and knee,
The purple robe, the crown of thorn,
The scourge, the nail, th’accursèd tree.

5 No guile within His mouth is found,
He neither threatens nor complains:
Meek as a lamb for slaughter bound,
Dumb ’midst His murderers He remains.

6 But hark! He prays—’tis for His foes;
He speaks—’tis comfort to His friends;
Answers—and paradise bestows;
He bows His head; the conflict ends.

7 Truly this was the Son of God!
Though in a servant’s mean disguise;
And, bruised beneath the Father’s rod,
Not for Himself—for man He dies.