Pilate, a stranger, holdeth off; but they

Mine own dear people, cry ‘away, away,’

With noise confusèd frightening the day.

Was ever grief like mine?”

Rejected and despised of men,

Behold a man of woe!

And grief his close companion still

Through all his life below!

Yet all the griefs he felt were ours,

Ours were the woes he bore;

Pangs, not his own, his spotless soul

With bitter anguish tore.

We held him as condemn’d of heaven,

An outcast from his God;

While for our sins he groaned, he bled,

Beneath his Father’s rod.

His sacred blood hath wash’d our souls

From sin’s polluting stain;

His stripes have heal’d us, and his death

Revived our souls again.

Power and dominion are his due

Who stood condemn’d at Pilate’s bar;

Wisdom belongs to Jesus too,

Though he was charged with madness here.



Honour immortal must be paid,

Instead of scandal and of scorn;

While glory shines around his head,

And a bright crown without a thorn.