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.

Last eve, by those He called His own,

Betray'd, forsaken, or denied,

He met His enemies alone

In all their malice, rage, and pride.

Brought forth to judgment, now He stands

Arraign'd, condemn'd, at Pilate's bar:

Here, spurn'd by fierce praetorian bands,

There, mock'd by Herod's men of war.

He bears their buffeting and scorn,

Mock-homage of the lip and knee,

The purple robe, the crown of thorn,

The scourge, the nail, the accursed tree.

No guile within His mouth is found,

He neither threatens nor complains:

Meek as a lamb for slaughter bound,

Dumb 'midst His murderers He remains.

But hark! He prays--tis for His foes;

He speaks,--tis comfort to His friends;

Answers,--and Paradise bestows;

He bows His head; the conflict ends.

Truly this was the Son of God!

Though in a servant's mean disguise;

And, bruised beneath the Father's rod,

Not for Himself--for Man He dies.