It is the bare and leafless Tree
Our sins once sowed on Calvary,
And mockers digged with trembling knee—
Holy Cross.

It is the dead unpitying Wood,
That like a crimson pillar stood,
Where none unmoved unweeping could—
Holy Cross.

O fearful sight foretold to man,
The cloven spar, the sacred span,
Whence God's atoning Blood once ran—
Holy Cross.

It is the Holy Gibbet Tree,
All stained with Love's last agony
And marked with awful mystery—
Holy Cross.

What stains are these incarnadine,
What scars are these more red than wine
Of more than human Passion sign?
Holy Cross.

It is the sunless stricken Tree,
Upon whose branches sore to see
O mystery, died One of Three—
Holy Cross.

What storm swept o'er its boughs that day,
When God to God did sorely pray,
And human guilt ebbed slow away—
Holy Cross.

When earth shall smoke and sun shall flee,
Alone unmoved o'er sinking sea
Shall stand one all-redeeming Tree—