2 Ride on, ride on in majesty!
The angel armies of the sky
Look down with sad and wondering eyes,
To see the approaching Sacrifice.
3 Ride on, ride on in majesty!
Thy last and fiercest strife is nigh:
The Father on his sapphire throne
Awaits His own anointed Son.
4 Ride on, ride on in majesty!
In lowly pomp ride on to die!
Bow Thy meek head to mortal pain,
Then take, O God, Thy power, and reign.
Henry Hart Milman. 1827. a.
1 SWEET the moments, rich in blessing,
Which before the Cross I spend,
Life, and health, and peace possessing,
From the sinner's dying Friend.
2 Here I rest, forever viewing
Mercy streaming in His Blood;
Precious drops, my soul bedewing,
Plead and claim my peace with God.
3 Truly blessed is this station,
Low before His Cross to lie;
While I see divine compassion
Beaming in His gracious eye.
4 Love and grief my heart dividing,
With my tears His feet I bathe;
Constant still, in faith abiding,
Life deriving from His death.
5 Lord, in ceaseless contemplation,
Fix my thankful heart on Thee,
Till I taste Thy full salvation,
And Thine unveiled glory see.
Calvary's mournful mountain climb:
There, adoring at His feet,
Mark that miracle of time,
God's own Sacrifice complete:
"It is finished," hear Him cry:
Learn of Jesus Christ to die.
4 Early hasten to the tomb,
Where they laid His breathless clay;
lis solitude and gloom;
Who hath taken Him away?
Christ is risen!-He meets our eyes:
Saviour, teach us so to rise.
Thursday in Passion Week.
An outcast from His God;
While for our sins He groaned, he bled,
Beneath His Father's rod.
5 His sacred Blood hath washed our souls
From sin's polluting stain;
His stripes have healed us, and His Death
Revived our souls again.
6 We all, like sheep, had gone astray
In ruin's fatal road:
On Him were our transgressions laid;
He bore the mighty load.
7 He died to bear the guilt of men,
That sin might be forgiven:
He lives to bless them and defend,
And plead their cause in heaven.
William Robertson. d. 1743.
1 HAIL, Thou once despiséd Jesus!
Hail, Thou Galilean King!
Thou didst suffer to release us;
Thou didst free salvation bring.
Prome vocem, mens, canoram.
1 Now, my soul, thy voice upraising,
Sing aloud in mournful strain,
Of the sorrows most amazing,
And the agonizing pain,
Which our Savior
Sinless bore, for sinners slain.
2 He the ruthless scourge enduring,
Ransom for our sins to pay,
Sinners by His own stripes curing,
Raising those who wounded lay,
Bore our sorrows,
And removed our pains away.
3 He to liberty restored us
By the very bonds He bare;
And His nail-pierced limbs afford us
Each a stream of mercy rare:
Lo! He draws us
To the Cross, and keeps us there.
4 When His painful life was ended,
When the spear transfixed His side:
Blood and water thence descended,
Pouring forth a double tide:
This to cleanse us,
That to heal us, is applied.
5 Jesus! may Thy promised blessing
Comfort to our souls afford;
May we, now Thy Love possessing,
And at length our full reward,
Ever praise Thee,
As our ever-glorious Lord!
John Chandler. 1837. a.
Tr. Santolius Maglorianus. ab. 1650.
O Haupt voll Blut und Wünden. 7,6. 10 SACRED Head, now wounded,
With grief and shame weighed down,
Now scornfully surrounded
With thorns, Thy only crown!
O sacred Head, what glory,
What bliss, till now, was Thine!
Yet, though despised and gory,
I joy to call Thee mine.
2 How art Thou pale with anguish,
With sore abuse and scorn!
How does that visage languish,
Which once was bright as morn!
What Thou, my Lord, hast suffered,
Was all for sinners' gain;
Mine, mine was the transgression,
But Thine the deadly pain.
3 Lo, here I fall, my Saviour!
'Tis I deserve Thy place!
Look on me with Thy favor,
Vouchsafe to me Thy grace.
Receive me, my Redeemer;
My Shepherd, make me Thine!
Of every good the Fountain,
Thou art the Spring of mine!
4 What language shall I borrow
To thank Thee, dearest Friend,
For this Thy dying sorrow,
Thy pity without end!
O make me Thine for ever,
And should I fainting be,
Lord, let me never, never
Outlive my love to Thee.
5 Forbid that I should leave Thee;
O Jesus, leave not me;
In faith may I receive Thee,
When death shall set me free.
When strength and comfort languish,
And I must hence depart,
Release me then from anguish
By Thine own wounded heart.
James W. Alexander. 1849. a.
Tr. Paul Gerhardt. 1659.
From Bernard of Clairvaux. 1153.
178
མv Pv་ སv སྒུ ཨvPv vཔ མ*Bཡཙ༡
Yet once more, to seal his doom,
Christ must sleep within the tomb.
2 Fierce and deadly was the anguish
Which on yonder Cross He bore;
How did soul and body languish
Till the toil of death was o'er!
But that toil, so fierce and dread,
Bruised and crushed the serpent's head.
3 Close and still the cell that holds Him,
While in brief repose He lies;
Deep the slumber that enfolds Him,
Veiled awhile from mortal eyes;
Slumber such as needs must be
After hard-won victory.
4 We this night with plaintive voicing
Chant His requiem soft and low;
Loftier strains of loud rejoicing
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