1 Come see on bloody Calvary,
Suspended on the accursed tree,
A wretched suff'rer cover'd o'er
With shame, and weltering in his gore.

2 Is this the Saviour long foretold
To usher in the age of gold?
To make the reign of sorrow cease,
And bind the jarring world in peace?

3 'Tis he, 'tis he,—he kindly shrouds
His glories in a night of clouds,
That souls might from their ruin rise,
And heir th' unperishable skies.

4 Jesus, what millions of our race
Have been the triumphs of thy grace,
And millions more to thee shall fly,
And on thy sacrifice rely?

5 That tree, that curse-empoison'd tree,
Which prov'd a bloody rack to thee,
Shall in the noblest blessings shoot,
And fill the nations with its fruit.

6 The sorrow, shame, and death were thine,
And all the stores of wrath divine;
Ours are the glory, life, and bliss:
What love can be compar'd to this.