1 JESUS, Lamb of God, for me
Thou, the Lord of life, didst die;
Whither,-whither but to thee
Can a trembling sinner fly?
Death's dark waters o'er me roll,
Save, oh! save my sinking soul.
2 Never bowed a martyred head;
Weighed with equal sorrow down,
Never blood so rich was shed,
Never king wore such a crown!
To thy cross and sacrifice
Faith now lifts her tearful eyes.
3 All my soul, by love subdued,
Melts in deep contrition there,
By thy mighty grace renewed,
New-born hope forbids despair;
Lord, thou canst my guilt forgive,
Thou hast bid me look and live.
4 While with broken heart I kneel,
Sinks the inward storm to rest;
Life-immortal life-I feel
Kindled in my throbbing breast;
Thine, for ever thine I am,
Glory to the bleeding Lamb!
Rev. Ray Palmer (1808-1887.) Expostulation.
1 HEART of stone, relent, relent,
Break, by Jesus' cross subdued;
See his body mangled, rent,
Covered with his flowing blood.
Sinful soul, what hast thou done?
Crucified the incarnate Son!
2 Will you let him die in vain,
Still to death pursue the Lord;
Open tear his wounds again,
Trample on his precious blood?
No, with all my sins I'll part;
Saviour, take my broken heart.
Rev. Charles Wesley (1708-1788.)
Faith in the sacrifice of Christ.
1 NOT all the blood of beasts
On Jewish altars slain,
Could give the guilty conscience peace,
Or wash away the stain.
2 But Christ, the heavenly lamb,
Takes all our sins away;
A sacrifice of nobler name,
And richer blood than they.
3 My faith would lay her hand
On that dear head of thine,
While like a penitent I stand,
And there confess my sin.
4 My soul looks back to see
The burdens thou didst bear When hanging on the cursed tree, And hopes her guilt was there.
5 Believing, we rejoice
To see the curse remove;
We bless the Lamb with cheerful voice,
And sing his bleeding love.
Rev. Isaac Watts (1674-1748.)
YE angels round the throne,
And saints that dwell below,
Worship the Father, love the Son,
And bless the Spirit too.
Rev. Isaac Watts (1674-1748.)
The fellowship of his sufferings.
1 How shall I follow him I serve?
How shall I copy him I love?
Nor from those blessed footsteps swerve
Which lead me to his seat above?
2 Privations, sorrows, bitter scorn,
The life of toil, the mean abode,
The faithless kiss, the crown of thorn-
Are these the consecrated road?
3 'Twas thus he suffered, though a Son,
Fore-knowing, choosing, feeling all,
Until the perfect work was done,
And drunk the cup of bitter gall.
4 Lord, should my path through suffering lie, Forbid that I should e'er repine;
Still let me turn to Calvary,
Nor heed my griefs, remembering thine.
Josiah Conder (1789-1855.)
1 O SACRED Head, once wounded,
With grief and shame weighed down,
How scornfully surrounded
With thorns, thine only crown;
O Sacred Head, what glory,
What bliss, till now was thine!
Yet, though despised and gory,
I joy to call thee mine.
2 How art thou pale with anguish,
With sore abuse and scorn;
How does that visage languish
That once was bright as morn!
What language shall I borrow
To thank thee, dearest Friend,
For this thy dying sorrow,
Thy pity without end?
3 Oh! make me thine forever;
And should I fainting be,
Lord, let me never, never,
Outlive my love to thee.
Be near when I am dying;
Oh! show thy cross to me!
And, for my succor flying,
Come, Lord, and set me free.
Bernard of Clairvaux (1091-1153.) Rev. Paul Gerhardt (1606-1676), 1659.
Tr. by Rev. James Waddell Alexander (1804-1859.)
1 LIFE of the world! I hail thee;
Hail, Jesus, Saviour dear!
I to thy cross could yield me,
Might I to thee be near.
Thyself, in all thy fullness,
My Lord, to me impart;
As thee I seek, oh! help me
To find thee in my heart! -
2 Look on me, All-forgiving!
Low at thy feet I bow;
Oh! all-divine thou seemest,
As I behold thee now!
I clasp with tender passion,
Thy feet, so pierced for us,
The cruel wounds deep graven,
O'erwhelmed to see thee thus!
3 While here with thee I linger,
Take me, dear Saviour mine!
Oh! draw me to thee closer,
And make me wholly thine;
Say, "Be thou saved, O sinner!"
And gladly at thy call,
On thy sure word relying,
To thee I give my all.
Tr. by Rev. Ray Palmer (1808-1887.)
1 His are the thousand sparkling rills
That from a thousand fountains burst,
And fill with music all the hills;
And yet he saith, "I thirst."
2 All fiery pangs on battle-fields,
On fever beds where sick men toss,
Are in that human cry he yields
To anguish on the cross.
3 But more than pains that racked him then
Was the deep longing thirst divine,
That thirsted for the souls of men;
Dear Lord! and one was mine.
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