One Hundred Holy Songs, Carols, and Sacred Ballads Original, and suitable for music [by Jean Ingelow] |
 |
 |
[Our Saviour fear'd the suff'ring that should be] |
|
 | One Hundred Holy Songs, Carols, and Sacred Ballads |  |
62
[Our Saviour fear'd the suff'ring that should be]
“He gave thanks.”
This hymn is an attempt to versify the following sentence: —“How wonderful is the love which can discern the love of God revealed in and by deepest suffering, and which rejoices in the love in spite of the suffering. ‘He took the cup, and took the bread’—symbols of a broken body and shed blood—and ‘gave thanks.’” —Journal of Norman Macleod.
Our Saviour fear'd the suff'ring that should be,
The sorrow welling up—a mighty sea,
The shame and passion, the last agony,
And death's cold blanks;
But yet He took the bread while they did sup,
And—all His will to God's will given up—
He bless'd it; then, my soul, He took the cup,
And He gave thanks.
The sorrow welling up—a mighty sea,
The shame and passion, the last agony,
And death's cold blanks;
But yet He took the bread while they did sup,
And—all His will to God's will given up—
He bless'd it; then, my soul, He took the cup,
And He gave thanks.
Ay, He gave thanks; look'd on His symbols true,
The broken body and shed blood; He knew—
Wonderful love!—how near the trial drew
He must endure.
God's will reveal'd for deepest suffering stood,
He took it, blessing it as very good,
And seal'd it willingly with His best blood
To make it sure.
The broken body and shed blood; He knew—
Wonderful love!—how near the trial drew
He must endure.
God's will reveal'd for deepest suffering stood,
He took it, blessing it as very good,
And seal'd it willingly with His best blood
To make it sure.
Great Gift of God, stand yet in our poor stead,
For Thine own piercèd hands and thorn-crown'd head,
For Thine own body glorious from the dead
Beyond the banks
Of that cold river; all, whose cold is o'er,
Give thanks. Stand sweetly on Thy happy shore
And bless this bread; and for this wine, once more,
Jesus, give thanks.
For Thine own piercèd hands and thorn-crown'd head,
For Thine own body glorious from the dead
Beyond the banks
Of that cold river; all, whose cold is o'er,
Give thanks. Stand sweetly on Thy happy shore
And bless this bread; and for this wine, once more,
Jesus, give thanks.
| One Hundred Holy Songs, Carols, and Sacred Ballads | |