The morning dawns upon the place

Where Jesus spent the night in prayer;

Through yielding glooms behold his face!

Nor form, nor comeliness is there.

2 Brought forth to judgment, now he stands

Arraigned, condemned, at Pilate’s bar;

Here, spurned by fierce pretorian bands;

There, mocked by Herod’s men of war.

3 He bears their buffeting and scorn—

Mock-homage of the lip, the knee—

The purple robe, the crown of thorn—

The scourge, the nail, the accursed tree.

4 No guile within his mouth is found;

He neither threatens nor complains;

Meek as a lamb for slaughter bound,

Dumb ’mid his murderers he remains.

5 But hark, he prays; ’tis for his foes

And speaks: ’tis comfort to his friends;

Answers: and paradise bestows;

He bows his head: the conflict ends.