Classic Poem

HYMN XXXVII.

O T hers may tell of famous things
Done by their heroes and their kings;
The Lord we serve, them all exceeds
For mighty sufferings, mighty deeds.

The torments he has undergone,
The glorious trophies he has won,
Armies of wondring angels cause
To fill the heavens with loud applause.

Deep in our breasts let us record
The story of our dying Lord:
As we his kind memorials view,
Our wonder, and our songs renew.

From heaven the Lord of glory came,
On earth to bear reproach and shame;
The son of God his face to veil,
Assumes a body weak and frail.

The king of kings a crown adorns,
Instead of gems, all set with thorns:
He whom the angels prais'd and blest,
Is made the rabble's scorn and jest.

The meek, the just, the holy one
Under the weight of sin does groan.
The prince of life would learn to die,
And be as low as he was high.

He that distributes crowns and thrones,
Hangs on a tree, and bleeds, and groans:
He on a cross resigns his breath,
Who keeps the keys of hell and death.

'Twas thus, because he'd have it so,
That we his wondrous love might know:
To rescue us, he was betray'd;
To make us free, a pris'ner made;

To raise us, in the dust did roll;
Bore many wounds, to make us whole:
To give us pleasure, felt our pain;
And dy'd, that we might life obtain.

Thus sin, death, and the powers of hell,
Conquer'd, disarm'd, and wounded fell.
He mounted then his throne above,
And conquers sinners by his love.

Lord , since our pardon, and our bliss,
Were bought at such a price as this;
As thou art ours, we're thine alone;
Thine will we be, and not our own.