Classic Poem

HYMN XXVI.

Hast thou, my soul, thy Saviour view'd
As on the cross he hung and bled?
Hast seen his bruises, wounds, and tears,
Seen him bow down his dying head?

Hast heard how rudely he was jeer'd
By those that made him groan and die?
Heard him amid their cruel scoffs,
Ev'n rend the heavens with his cry,

That doleful cry, my God, my God ,
O why hast thou thy son for sook!
Hast mark'd the anguish of his words,
The mortal horror of his look?

All this is much, yet 'tis not all;
But thou no proper terms canst find
To paint the torments of his soul,
The inward bruises of his mind.

All this and more than thou, my soul,
Canst tell or think, he did endure,
To skreen thee from his father's wrath,
And thy eternal bliss secure.

Look back once more, and view his head,
His back, his hands, his feet, his side:
And tell if any sight like this
Is found in all the world beside.

No, all to me is dung and dross,
But my dear Jesus crucify'd:
Under the shadow of his cross
I'll sit me down, and there abide.

His wounds, the noblest proofs of love,
His beauty too I there shall see,
Darting thro his reproachful veil
Its sweet and powerful beams on me.