Oh, think, how He, whom thou hast wounded,
Hast scourged, and scorned, and spit upon,

Altered from Quarles.

Oh, think, how He, whom thou hast wounded,
Hast scourged, and scorned, and spit upon,
Hath paid thy ransom, and compounded
For thy distresses with his own!
How He, whose blood thy sins have spilt,
Whose limbs they to the Cross have nailed,
Hath freely borne thy load of guilt,
And made supply where thou hast failed.

He died, to save thy soul from dying;
Was bound Himself, to set thee free;
And where there was no power of flying,
He came, and met the blow for thee;
And all this dying friend requires,
For all His pity, all His pain,
Are simply aims, and pure desires,
And for His love like love again.

Oh, loose then, Lord, my tardy tears,
And break this fleshly rock asunder,
And on my night of doubts and fears
Pour a new day of joy and wonder.
This deadness from my soul remove;
Melt down my icy unbelief;
Let grief add feeling to my love,
And love pluck out the the sting from grief.

Then rise, poor earthworm, from the dust;
Enjoy thy new and large condition:
Walk with thy God in humble trust,
And ripen for His full fruition.
No more rebellious, dark, exiled,
Adore, and love, and praise Him rather;
Return a lost, but contrite, child,
And find a kind, forgiving Father.

~ Henry Francis Lyte

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