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| O SOUL of Jesus, sick to death! | |
| Thy blood and prayer together plead; | |
| My sins have bowed Thee to the ground, | |
| As the storm bows the feeble reed. | |
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| Midnight—and still the oppressive load | 5 |
| Upon Thy tortured heart doth lie; | |
| Still the abhorred procession winds | |
| Before Thy spirit’s quailing eye. | |
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| Deep waters have come in, O Lord! | |
| All darkly on Thy human soul; | 10 |
| And clouds of supernatural gloom | |
| Around Thee are allowed to roll. | |
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| The weight of the eternal wrath | |
| Drives over Thee with pressure dread; | |
| And, forced upon the olive roots, | 15 |
| In deathlike sadness droops Thy head. | |
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| Thy spirit weighs the sins of men; | |
| Thy science fathoms all their guilt; | |
| Thou sickenest heavily at Thy heart, | |
| And the pores open,—blood is spilt. | 20 |
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| And Thou hast struggled with it, Lord | |
| Even to the limit of Thy strength, | |
| While hours, whose minutes were as years. | |
| Slowly fulfilled their weary length. | |
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| And Thou hast shuddered at each act, | 25 |
| And shrunk with an astonished fear, | |
| As if Thou couldst not bear to see | |
| The loathsomeness of sin so near. | |
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| Sin and the Father’s anger! they | |
| Have made Thy lower nature faint; | 30 |
| All, save the love within Thy heart, | |
| Seemed for the moment to be spent. | |
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| My God! my God! and can it be | |
| That I should sin so lightly now, | |
| And think no more of evil thoughts, | 35 |
| Than of the wind that waves the bough? | |
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| I sin,—and heaven and earth go round, | |
| As if no dreadful deed were done, | |
| As if Christ’s blood had never flowed | |
| To hinder sin, or to atone. | 40 |
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| I walk the earth with lightsome step, | |
| Smile at the sunshine, breathe the air | |
| Do my own will, nor ever heed | |
| Gethsemane and Thy long prayer. | |
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| Shall it be always thus, O Lord? | 45 |
| Wilt Thou not work this hour in me | |
| The grace Thy passion merited, | |
| Hatred of self and love of Thee? | |
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| Ever when tempted, make me see, | |
| Beneath the olive’s moon-pierced shade, | 50 |
| My God, alone, outstretched, and bruised, | |
| And bleeding, on the earth He made. | |
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| And make me feel it was my sin, | |
| As though no other sins there were, | |
| That was to Him who bears the world | 55 |
| A load that He could scarcely bear! | |
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