1 Stretched on the cross, the Saviour dies;
Hark! His expiring groans arise!
See, from His hands, His feet, His side,
Runs down the sacred crimson tide!
2 But life attends the deathful sound,
And flows from every bleeding wound;
The vital stream, how free it flows
To save and cleanse His rebel foes!
3 To suffer in the traitor's place,
To die for man, surprising grace!
Yet pass rebellious angels by--
Oh why for man, dear Saviour, why?
4 Can I survey this scene of woe,
Where mingling grief and wonder flow;
And yet my heart unmoved remain,
Insensible to love or pain?
5 Come, dearest Lord! Thy grace impart,
To warn this cold, unfeeling heart;
Till all its powers and passions move
In melting grief and ardent love.
Source: The Book of Worship #88
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