Classic Poem

HYMN XI.

Immortal praise be given,
And glory in the high'st,
To th' God of peace, who sent from heaven
His own beloved Christ:

Him a sin-offering made
For Adam's guilty sons;
Our pressing crimes upon him laid,
For which his blood atones.

Such torments he endur'd
As none e'er felt before;
That joy and bliss might be secur'd
To us for evermore.

Hurry'd from bar to bar,
With blows and scoffs abus'd;
Revil'd with Herod's men of war,
With Pilate's scourges bruis'd.

His sweet and reverend face
With spittle all profan'd;
That visage, full of heav'nly grace,
With his own blood distain'd.

Stretch'd on the cruel tree,
He bled, and groan'd, and cry'd;
And in a mortal agony
Languish'd a while, and dy'd.

But dying left a wound
On the old serpent's head,
For which no cure can e'er be found;
And soon rose from the dead:

Then did to heaven ascend,
That we might thither go,
Where love and praises have no end,
Where joys no changes know.