On the Cross, who is this dying?
Emblem of shame to all the race,
In pangs of spirit, anguished crying
What hath on Him brought such disgrace?
What foul sin hath He committed,
To die a death seen so despised?
For Him a murderer’s acquitted;
A blameless life, yet now He dies.
On the Cross, behold Him crying
In pains much deeper than pierced brow,
An agony greater than dying:
The Bosom Son, forsaken now.
Why does the Father turn His face
Hearing not the Beloved’s groan?
For this: the rescue of a race,
Messiah makes their Sins His own.
On the Cross, the blood down-pouring,
The perfect sacrifice is slain
The hope of rebel men restoring,
To come as sons to God again;
Not blood of bulls upon the altar
Could cleanse us from our heinous guilt;
To restore us from our prideful falter,
The blood of God’s own Son is spilt.
On the Cross, that final saying:
“It is finished” heaven hears
To rebel men men, what love displaying!
The Father bids them now draw near.
All those whom to the Son are given,
As He promised, none are lost.
These He clothes in perfect linen,
For His sheep He bore the Cross.
On the Throne, in all His glory,
See the man of Sorrows now,
Continuing Redemption’s story,
Till every knee to Him shall bow.
The Father calls His children to Him,
From all nations, tribes and tongues
The Spirit, now in Mercy draws them,
Now Sinner’s raise Salvation’s song.
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