I SEE the crowd in Pilate's hall,
I mark their wrathful mien;
Their shouts of " crucify " appall,
With blasphemy between.

And of that shouting multitude
I feel that I am one;
And in that din of voices rude,
I recognise my own.

I see the scourges tear his back,
I see the piercing crown,
And of that crowd who smote and mock,
I feel that I am one,

Around yon cross, the throng I see,
Mocking the sufferer's groan,
Yet still my voice it seems to be, —
As if I mocked alone.

'Twas I that shed the sacred blood,
I nailed him to the tree,
I crucified the Christ of God,
I joined the mockery.

Yet not the less that blood avails,
To cleanse away my sin,
And not the less that cross prevails
To give me peace within.