I

O Thou who cloth’st Thyself complete

With light as with a garment fair,

Thou bor’st the cruel, vulgar stare,

Unrobed before the judgment-seat.

II

Thou gav’st the hand its subtle power,

But with the hand, O Lord of grace,

Upon Thy pallid, careworn face,

They smote Thee in that evil hour.

III

They nailed the Lord of Glory high,

And while He hung in awful pain,

The temple veil was rent in twain,

The sun refused to see Him die.