Classic Poem

HYMN XLIX.

'T IS finish'd, the redeemer crys;
Then lowly bows his fainting head;
And soon th' expiring sacrifice
Sinks to the regions of the dead.

'Tis done — the mighty work is done!
For men or angels much too great;
Which none, but God's eternal son,
Or would attempt, or could complete.

'Tis done, — his tears, his groans, and wounds,
His sweat and blood, his pains and toils,
Vict'ry with deathless glory crowns,
With trophies, and triumphant spoils.

Hell's broken troops find no defence:
Sin dies, and death itself is slain:
Hope, peace, love, joy and innocence
Return to dwell on earth again.

The conqueror falls a sacrifice,
Heav'n's just resentments to appease:
Justice with mercy now complys,
Both with the sinner's pardon pleas'd.

'Tis done, — old things are past away,
And a new state of things begun;
A world whose age feels no decay,
But shall out-last the circling sun.

A new account of time begins,
When our dear Lord resign'd his breath,
Charg'd with our sorrows and our sins,
Our lives to ransom by his death.

Once he was dead; now lives and reigns
Where angels his great deeds proclaim:
Let's tell our joys in pious strains,
And spread the glory of his name.