 | The poetical works of John and Charles Wesley |  |
V. THE SAME.
Hymn 5.
[Still let me on my Pattern gaze]
Still let me on my Pattern gaze,
How meek and motionless He stands!
They spit upon His sacred face,
They buffet with unhallow'd hands,
They bow the knee, present the reed,
And mock whom they have doom'd to bleed.
How meek and motionless He stands!
They spit upon His sacred face,
They buffet with unhallow'd hands,
They bow the knee, present the reed,
And mock whom they have doom'd to bleed.
No answer yet? no late reply
To clear His suffering innocence?
So tamely will the guiltless die,
Die for His guilty foes' offence,
Die, that His murderers may live!
“Father (He gasps in death) forgive!”
To clear His suffering innocence?
So tamely will the guiltless die,
Die for His guilty foes' offence,
Die, that His murderers may live!
“Father (He gasps in death) forgive!”
Silent for them, for them He pleads,
And spends in prayer His latest breath;
To purge a sinful world He bleeds,
To bless them dies a cursed death,
Expires into the arms Divine—
Jesu, was ever love like Thine!
And spends in prayer His latest breath;
To purge a sinful world He bleeds,
To bless them dies a cursed death,
Expires into the arms Divine—
Jesu, was ever love like Thine!
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O might it now my heart constrain,
My every rising thought control,
Sweeten the cup of grief, and pain,
And melt and meeken all my soul,
Conform me to the Crucified,
My God, who for His murderers died.
My every rising thought control,
Sweeten the cup of grief, and pain,
And melt and meeken all my soul,
Conform me to the Crucified,
My God, who for His murderers died.
Love only can the conquest win,
And make me as my lamblike God:
Through love I conquer all their sin,
And strive, resisting unto blood;
Strive to secure the glorious wreath,
Resisting, by enduring death.
And make me as my lamblike God:
Through love I conquer all their sin,
And strive, resisting unto blood;
Strive to secure the glorious wreath,
Resisting, by enduring death.
O might I now Thy love retrieve,
And sink among the happy dead,
Into Thine hands my spirit give,
And bow upon Thy cross my head,
When I its utmost virtue prove,
Made perfect by all-patient love.
And sink among the happy dead,
Into Thine hands my spirit give,
And bow upon Thy cross my head,
When I its utmost virtue prove,
Made perfect by all-patient love.
| The poetical works of John and Charles Wesley | |