Classic Poem

HYMN XXXVI.

What mighty conqueror do we see
Whose garments are distain'd with blood,

Whose rich apparel seems to be
All tinctur'd in a crimson flood?

Like one who has the wine-press trod,
Whose clothes the grape has purpl'd o'er?
'Tis the eternal Son of God,
All full of wounds, all stain'd with gore.

A mighty conqueror indeed,
Who conquers by receiving blows;
To give wounds, is content to bleed;
And by his death subdues his foes.

He treads 'em down, tho all alone,
And with their blood his vesture's stain'd;
But first is all bath'd in his own,
His own by many a wound is drain'd.

His blood hell's subtle powers confounds,
To them a mortal liquor proves;
But is a balm to heal our wounds,
A wine to chear the souls he loves.

The vessels that contain'd this juice,
A spear and ruder nails did broach;
And while his flesh they pierce and bruise,
His heart is broken with reproach.

But bruis'd, and broke, and mangled thus,
This sacrifice our pardon gain'd;
And thus prepar'd, is food to us,
By which we live, and are sustain'd.

Thrice happy they, whose tents around
Such heavenly blessings still are spread!
Whose cup is with salvation crown'd,
Their board with true and living bread!

Praise him whose mercies know no end,
But to a vaster sum arise
Than sins themselves; for these extend
To heaven, but those above the skies.