Classic Poem

HYMN XXI.

From supper to Gethsemane
Away our blessed Lord does haste;
Thither let's follow him, and see
How he begins of death to taste.

He saw of sins an endless scroul,
Millions of sins of crimson red,
All meeting on his spotless soul,
While he stood charg'd in sinners stead.

He knew the terrors of the Lord ,
The censures of his righteous law;
Naked the bright avenging sword,
And brandish'd o'er his head he saw.

Horror and anguish on him seize,
His soul's o'erwhelm'd with mortal fears;
He groans, and as his pangs increase,
Sweats drops of blood, weeps floods of tears.

But who can tell how much he felt
On that curs'd tree whereon he dy'd?
While's heart like flowing wax did melt,
His strength was like a potsherd dry'd.

There, as his panting body hung,
The powers of darkness all combin'd,
Their flaming arrows at him flung,
To fill with thousand wounds his mind.

Men, by whose cruel hands he bled,
Ungrateful men, for whom he dy'd,
As void of pity as of dread,
Blaspheme him, and his pains deride.

His very friends, like timorous sheep,
Are scatter'd from their shepherd now:
His father's anger wounds him deep,
Down to the dust this makes him bow.

No pains, no cost our God would spare,
Revolted sinners to regain;
That they might robes of glory wear,
And with him in his kingdom reign.

Praise him ye angels round his throne,
Who us in thought and might excel;
Praise him, his servants every one,
Who in these lower regions dwell.