O YE who pass along the way
All joyous, where with grief I pine,
In pity pause awhile, and say,
Was ever sorrow like to mine?

See, hanging here before my eyes,
This body, bloodless, bruis'd, and torn,---
Alas! it is my Son Who dies,
Of love deserving, not of scorn.

For know, this weak and dying Man
Is Son of Him Who made the earth
And me, before the world began,
He chose to give Him human birth.

He is my God! and since that night
When first I saw His infant grace,
My soul has feasted on the light,
The beauty of that heavenly face.

For He had chosen me to be
The lov'd companion of His heart;
And ah I how that dear company
With love transpierc'd me like a dart!

And now behold this loving Son
Is dying in a woe so great,
The very stones are moved to moan
In sorrow at His piteous state.

Where'er His failing eyes are bent,
A friend to help He seeks in vain
All, all on vengeance are intent,
And eager to increase His pain.

Eternal Father! God of love!
Behold Thy Son! ah! see His woe!
Canst Thou look down from Heaven above
And for Thy Son no pity show?

But, no-----that Father sees His Son
Cloth'd with the sins of guilty men;
And spares not that Beloved One,
Though dying on His cross of pain.

My Son! my Son! could I at least
Console Thee in this hour of death,
Could I but lay Thee on my breast.
And there receive Thy parting breath!

Alas! no comfort I impart;
Nay, rather this my vain regret
But rends still more Thy loving heart
And makes Thy death more bitter yet.

Ah, loving souls! love, love that God
Who all inflamed with love expires;
On thee this life He has bestowed;
Thy love is all that He desires.