Classic Poem

HYMN XXXIV.

C O me let us all, who here have seen,
And tasted of our Saviour's grace,
From his blest table to his cross,
In thought, his weary footsteps trace.

Let's trace him up to Calvary ,
Not leave him as his followers did,
Who having at his table sup'd,
Forsook their suffering Lord, and fled.

Into the garden first he goes,
Where mortal fears beset him round;
Sin's pressing weight o'erwhelms his soul,
And sinks his body to the ground.

Here, prostrate as he lies, he groans,
Pouring out pray'rs with fervent cries,
Till he sweats drops of blood, to mix
With floods that issue from his eyes.

Yet are his sorrows but begun;
By one disciple he's betray'd,
Another him with oaths denies,
The rest all run like sheep afraid.

Falsly accus'd, he's doom'd to die;
Loaded with blasphemy and scorn,
He's rudely buffeted and bound,
His sacred flesh with scourges torn.

His temples wear a wreath of thorns,
Spittle his reverend face profanes;
His weary shoulders bear a cross,
On which he suffers mortal pains.

Between two thieves he lingring dies,
While thousand tortures on him meet;
His heart's dissolv'd within, his blood
Flows out in streams from hands and feet.

These streams, join'd with that other flood
That gush'd out from his wounded side,
Compose a sovereign bath, wherein
The leprous Soul is purify'd.