Classic Poem

HYMN XXXIII.

W H at wond'rous things we now behold
At this mysterious board!
What copious matter for a song
Of praises they afford!

Extended on a cross we see
The Lord whom we adore,
Both giving and receiving wounds,
Bath'd in triumphant gore.

No victor's robe so rich a dye
Before did ever stain,
No champion such a victory
Before did ever gain.

Glory and strength his torments add
To all his mighty deeds;
His enemies fly, and fall the more,
The more he groans and bleeds.

Tho the law's curse lights on his head,
While Satan wounds his heel,
His body's bruis'd by men, his heart
Death's cruel sting does feel;

Yet with firm courage he o'er all
Bears up his conqu'ring head,
Till on their captive necks his feet
In solemn triumph tread.

This shock our Lord sustain'd alone,
But makes us share the spoils;
He felt his father's dreadful frowns,
That we might have his smiles.

To cure our wounds and putrid sores,
Was pierc'd in every limb;
His cross, our tree of life, became
A tree of death to him.

But tho once dead, he's now alive,
And lives for evermore:
Then let his saints, whose life is hid
In Christ, his name adore.