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tr., John Brownlie



The burden of my sin was great,

My soul with pain was crushed;

And every voice of promise sweet,

Was for the moment hushed.


Dark clouds come rolling o'er my head,

And quick the night came down;—

O Christ, if Thine was pain like this,

Thorns were a fitting crown.


O night without, and night within,

And doubt, and fear, and dread;

And all my folly and my sin,

Before my eyes were spread.


And not a hand to still my pain,

And not a voice to bless;—

O Christ, did all Thy pain and woe

Give anguish like to this?


A morning comes when night is past,

A calm when storms are spent;

And healing to my wounded soul,

My God in mercy sent.


I saw the Cross upon the hill,

I felt the dark come down;—

The anguish of His wounded soul,

The stinging of the crown.


And as I looked, the morning grew,

The calm of morn was mine;

For ah! the anguish that He bore,

My troubled soul, was thine.

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