Hymns, etc. ‎#1

1. On the Passion

1 Come, all ye chosen saints of God,
That long to feel the cleansing blood,
In pensive pleasure join with me,
To sing of sad Gethsemane.

2 Gethsemane, the Olive-Press!
(And why so call'd, let Christians guess)
Fit name! fit place! where vengeance strove,
And grip'd and grappled hard with love.

3 'Twas here the Lord of life appear'd,
And sigh'd, and groan'd, and pray'd, and fear'd;
Bore all incarnate God could bear,
With strength enough—and none to spare.

4 The pow'rs of hell united press'd
And squeez'd his heart, and bruis'd his breast.
What dreadful conflicts rag'd within,
When sweat and blood forc'd thro' the skin!

5 Dispatch'd from heav'n an angel stood,
Amaz'd to find him bath'd in blood,
Ador'd by angels and obey'd;
But lower now than angels made.

6 He stood to strengthen, not to fight;
Justice exacts its utmost mite.
This victim vengeance will pursue:
He undertook; and must go thro'.

7 Three favour'd servants, left not far,
Were bid to wait and watch the war:
But Christ withdrawn, what watch we keep!
To shun the sight, they sunk in sleep.

8 Backwards and forwards thrice he ran,
As if he sought some help from man;
Or wish'd at least, they would condole
('Twas all they could) his tortur'd soul.

9 Whate’er he sought for, there was none;
Our Captain fought the field alone:
'Soon as the chief to battle led,
That moment ev'ry soldier fled.

10 Mysterious conflict! dark disguise!
Hid from all creatures peering eyes.
Angels astonish'd, view'd the scene;
And wonder yet, what all could mean.

11 O Mount of Olives, sacred grove!
O garden, scene of tragic love!
What bitter herbs thy beds produce!
How rank their scent! how harsh their juice!

12 Rare virtues now these herbs contain:
The Saviour suck'd out all their bane.
My mouth with these if conscience cram,
I’ll eat them with the Paschal Lamb.

13 O Kedron, gloomy brook, how foul
Thy black polluted waters roll!
No tongue can tell (but some can taste)
The filth that into thee was cast.

14 In Eden’s garden there was food
Of every kind for man, while good;
But banish'd thence, we fly to Thee,
O garden of Gethsemane.

Part 2:

1 And why dear Saviour, tell me why,
Thou thus would'st suffer, bleed, and die?
What mighty motive could thee move?
The motive’s plain; ‘twas all for love.

2 For love of whom? Of sinners base,
A harden'd herd, a rebel-race;
That mock'd and trampled on thy blood,
And wanton'd with the wounds of God.

3 When rocks and mountains rent with dread,
And gaping graves gave up their dead,
When the fair sun withdrew his light,
And bid his head, to shun the sight.

4 Then stood the wretch of human race,
And rais'd his head, and shew'd his face,
Gaz'd unconcern'd when nature fail'd;
And scoff'd, and sneer'd, and curs'd, and rail'd.

5 Harder than rocks and mountains are,
More dull than dirt and earth by far,
Man view'd unmov'd thy blood’s rich stream,
Nor ever dream'd it flow'd for him,

6 Such was that race of sinful men,
That gain'd that great salvation then,
Such, and such only, still we see,
Such they were all: And such are we.

7 The Jews with thorns his temples crown'd;
And lash'd him when his hands were bound;
But thorns, and knotted whips, and bands
By us were furnish'd to their hands.

8 They nail'd him to the accursed tree.
They did: my brethren, so did we.
The soldier pierc'd his side> ‘Tis true:
But we hare pierc'd him thro' and thro'.

9 O love, of unexampled kind!
That leaves all thought so far behind:
Where length, and breadth, and depth, and height,
Are lost to my astonish'd sight,

10 For love of me the Son of God
Drain'd ev'ry drop of vital blood
Long time I after idols ran;
But now my God’s a martyr'd man.

Text Information

• First Line: Come, all ye chosen saints of God
• Title: On the Passion
• Language: English
• Publication Date: 1787

Tune Information

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